


Mickey Mantle vs. the T-Rex

by ZoePlacid



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Brother-Sister Relationships, Friendship, Gen, Hospitals, M/M, Mental Illness, Physical Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Terminal Illnesses, mentions of cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:26:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoePlacid/pseuds/ZoePlacid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place shortly after the events in 4x12.  It's mainly about Ian, Mickey, and Mandy coming to terms with Ian’s mental illness. (It basically serves as an alternate season five, and was mostly written during the hiatus).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be pretty angsty, but no major character is going to die (none of the Gallaghers and none of the living Milkoviches). There is going to be some stuff about what happened to Mickey and Mandy’s mom, though.
> 
> And one small warning: I've never written fan fiction before so god only knows if I'm doing this right.

It was shitty and then it got better. Ian left the bed. He ate breakfast. Then lunch. Dinner. At first he moved as though every one of his muscles and bones ached. Slowly, so slowly. Mickey practically winced looking at him. Sometimes Mickey couldn’t look at him and then he felt guilty.

Eventually Ian would smile if Mickey said something stupid to cheer him up. Called him some dumb nickname--like Mickey’s mom used to do when he was sick a long time ago. What did she used to call him again? ‘Sleepyface’ and ‘Death’s Door.’

“Yo, Death’s Door--you want some chicken soup?” she’d yell from the kitchen and it used to make Mickey laugh when he was seven and coughing up a lung with bronchitis and it was so stupid that it even made Ian smile now. 

“Hey, Tough Guy--you wanna order in a pizza?”

“C’mon Sleepyface--you wanna go see a movie?”

“Yo, Sleeping beauty, you wanna walk down to the Alibi for a beer?”

Mickey tried other things--if they were on the couch watching TV, he’d cycle through the channels until he found something Ian liked, like Law & Order. But Ian knew Mickey hated Law & Order because it “made the police look like fucking heroes” and they had actually gotten into an argument where they were each arguing for watching shows that they each couldn’t stand. And then Mickey kept asking Ian if he wanted this or that and finally Ian said, “You know, you don’t have to be so nice to me all the time!”

“Who’s being nice? Maybe I want a beer, too, asshole.” And Ian just gave up and let it drop. He may have even smiled a little.

One day it was like a switch flipped and Ian was fine again. He woke up early and went for a run--his first in weeks. Initially, when Mickey heard the front door slam and found himself alone in bed, he panicked. He left their bed and paced around the house telling himself he was being stupid but freaking out anyway. He texted Ian fourteen times, stuff like, “Wher the fck R U? Goddamn fuckin DICK” until he noticed a pile of clothes vibrating in the corner of their bedroom and realized Ian hadn’t taken his phone. And then 73 minutes later there the motherfucker finally was--running into the house, flushed from his run, and happy. Actually fucking happy.

“Hey!” Ian said as he bounded past Mickey and went to the kitchen.

“What the fuck, man?”

“What?”

“You don’t tell me where you’re going? You don’t take your fucking phone with you?”

“Oh,” Ian started pulling dishes and cereal boxes out of cupboards, “I guess I forgot it.”

“I thought you might be fucking dead.”

Ian laughed and Mickey couldn’t believe it. He didn’t know whether to be incredibly relieved or whether to punch him.

“C’mon Mick--I just went for a run. I go for those all the time.” And Mickey wanted to say, yeah, you used to go for those all the time, you dumb fuck, but that was before. It was only six weeks ago, but Mickey felt like his entire life could be divided into different Ian Gallagher eras. Like when they learned about the fucking dinosaurs in second grade. Paleozoic? Mesozoic era? Were those the right words? He had actually almost paid attention to the dinosaur shit because dinosaurs were one of the few things that were so cool not even school could fuck them up. Anyway, in his mind these were his eras: pre-Ian, post-Ian, and now pre-Ian’s manic depressive shit and post-Ian’s manic depressive shit.

But he and Ian had never actually talked about it. Fiona and Lip had both come by during the days when Ian was unable to leave the bed and they had certainly talked about it. They had beaten the fucking subject to death. It had been constant arguments, whining about manic depression, and stories about how bad stupid fucking Monica had been. “Take him to the clinic, take him to the fucking clinic!” they kept saying like two broken records. The only reason he hadn’t kicked them out was because, well, Ian needed them, and in a way Mickey did, too. Mandy had left the day after Fiona told them that Ian was probably bi-polar--she fled town with Kenyatta to go to the magical winter wonderland of Detroit. It pissed Mickey off, but he understood why she needed to go. So what was left to him was the Gallaghers. And Lip and Fiona were idiots but they were worried about Ian the same as he was--and it made him feel less alone to glare at their faces which reflected exactly how he felt on the inside--they both had his same gnawing panic and fear.

Eventually the Gallagher arguments ended because Ian was feeling well enough to leave the bed (not well enough to leave the house yet, though) and as soon as he could he told them he was okay and they had to admit defeat for a while. They had all been sitting in the living room--Fiona, Lip, and Ian. Mickey was hanging back in the kitchen drinking a beer, trying to pretend that he didn’t care and wasn’t listening but fooling no one, not even himself. 

Ian said, “I’m fine now, just go home and relax.”

“What do you mean, you’re fine?” Fiona asked, “You stayed in bed for five days, Ian.”

“I got a little low for a few days--but I’m fine.”

And now, with Ian in the room actually talking to all of them no one wanted to say the words “bi-polar” or “manic depression.” It was like if they said it to him, then it would finally, really be true. So Fiona had said, “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to go down to the clinic to just see if anything’s wrong, would it?” and Lip said, “I’ll go with you--they just passed that new law so I’ll get a medical marijuana prescription or some shit.”

Ian nicely, but firmly, turned them down and they had to leave eventually. Fiona came up to Mickey in the kitchen before they left and said, “If ANYTHING happens with him, you come and get us, you hear me?”

Mickey glared at her but said, “All right.” Because of course he would.

Anyway, now here was Ian, not barely functioning like he had been the last few weeks, but bouncing around the kitchen, and saying shit like, “You want some toast?” and popping two slices in the toaster before Mickey could reply. And Mickey didn’t know what to do. Fiona had said this type of crap was a “manic episode” but maybe it was just being happy because he finally felt good enough to go for a run. Maybe Ian was all right now. Maybe he would always be all right. Who the fuck knew, anyway?


	2. Chapter 2

With Monica there had been good times and bad. And the bad had always quickly followed the good.

Sometimes bad meant Monica was dead to the world, just a lump in a bed covered with sheets and blankets. Sometimes, more often, it meant she was simply gone--took off in the middle of the night and they wouldn’t hear from her for months. Years. When Ian was very small he used to worry about her obsessively and hope she was all right--not lying dead in an alley somewhere. Later, he told himself that Monica was like Frank, indestructible in her own fucked up way, and he refused to worry anymore.

And, of course, just when he thought he was through worrying about her forever, on Thanksgiving they found Monica bleeding on the kitchen floor. Leave it to his mother to fuck up the best holiday--his favorite--and to give her kids a memory that made the next Thanksgiving extra hard as they tried to be so cheerful and not mention the images burned into their retinas from the previous year. 

He was supposed to be the kid who was the most like her. Frank was always mumbling about that. Perversely, this was Frank’s way of paying him a complement, “You’re so like your mother,” because Frank thought Monica was the best person in the world. The bipolar drug addict who flew in and out of her children’s lives like a mentally retarded goose--yeah, right, who wouldn’t want to be like her? It had made Ian want to become her exact opposite. He ran to ROTC, to school, to part-time jobs--anything with a structure. Anything that said responsibility, hard work, and planting your feet solidly on the ground. He was going to go to West Point and be an officer. Lip feared getting out; Ian never did. He loved his family. He even liked the neighborhood sometimes, but he wasn’t going to hang around and wait to fail. Not him.

This year, though…this past year…there was so much he didn’t want to look at too closely. There was so much that scared the hell out of him. He thought at the time that he had run away because of Mickey, but now he wasn’t so sure. Why the fuck had he enlisted? He had never wanted to be an enlisted man before and it destroyed his dreams of being an officer. And he used Lip’s stolen ID. It seemed to make perfect sense at the time but now it felt like something someone else had done. Someone incredibly stupid. 

He should have loved the army--he had dreamt of it long enough. He was in better condition than 99% of the other men and there were hot guys everywhere to help him forget Mickey. If you learned to spot the signals, it was like a fucking gay buffet. Sure, even with Don’t Ask Don’t Tell repealed no one was really “out” but it was a closet of convenience. The three guys he fucked on a semi-regular basis all admitted they were gay to themselves and he wished he had Mickey there to say to him, “See? If these jack-offs in the middle of this macho bullshit environment can admit it to themselves, why can’t you?” 

He deleted the two photos he had of Mickey (just two--Mickey would usually knock the phone from his hands whenever Ian was about to take his picture). He regretted erasing them later, although he had seen them so often he could call up their images in his brain. The first was Mickey, turned away from him and not aware that Ian was snapping the photo, lighting a cigarette behind the Kash and Grab as the sun went down. Just his neck and the side of his face were visible as he looked down, and the lighter illuminated his hands. 

The second was Mickey up in the nosebleed section of Comiskey Park (everyone in the neighborhood still called it Comiskey--they refused to use its current lame name) at a Sox game they’d snuck into. In this one, Mickey was holding a hotdog slathered in mustard and glaring because Ian had turned to him with the phone and said, “Smile!” Ian remembered after he clicked it that Mickey said, “All right, you got me--now can you stop with all this fucking picture bullshit?” That had been a few weeks before Mickey’s dad had caught them and Ian remembered being surprised that Mickey had allowed it. That he hadn’t grabbed the phone away and deleted the image which he would’ve done before.

There was actually a third one that Ian didn’t delete because Mandy was in it, too. You couldn’t see Mickey’s face because she had him in a headlock and she was laughing while Mickey was holding his hands out, like he was saying “uncle.” Ian told himself he kept it for Mandy but it was really for the both of them. The dark-haired Milkoviches. They had no idea how beautiful they were. 

After he deleted the first two photos from the phone, he spent the following weeks in Basic staring at the third over and over again--wishing he could see Mickey’s face and feeling like the most pathetic person in the world. 

Things began to go south around that time. Each morning in Basic he was barely able to get out of bed and dreaded another day of having to prove himself, of having sergeants yell at him--depressed about Mickey he supposed. Everything seemed pointless--why did he want to be in the fucking army, anyway? The army was actually filled with jerk-offs--idiots. And every time someone yelled, “Gallagher!” he thought of Mickey who always called him that, as if his first name was too intimate, and he wished it was Mickey who was yelling it now. And every time someone called him Lip or Phillip (which wasn’t that often, admittedly, but it happened) he thought of what the real Lip would say about these army fascist wackos and he just wanted to get the hell out of there. 

But even with all of that, he was still at a loss to explain the helicopter. He barely remembered doing it and he had been massively high. But still…a fucking helicopter? What was he going to do--land it on top of the Hancock Building? Fly it to Bali? He didn’t even know how to take off in the damn thing. It made absolutely no sense. It was like something he watched on TV--a badly written cartoon.

So the army went to total shit and he ran. He returned to Chicago because at least he knew Chicago, but he didn’t want to see Mickey again and he was too embarrassed to contact his family. Anyway, no one seemed to care that he was gone except Mandy, who he still texted sometimes. She also claimed that Mickey missed him.

asshole misses you.

yeah right.

seriously.

so how can u tell?

drinking more than usual. constant bottle of Jack in his hand. it’s pathetic.

whatever.

Maybe Mickey missed him and maybe he didn’t--but it didn’t matter anyway. Mickey was married, with a fucking baby on the way, and SO massively in the closet that he would never be able to say “I miss you” or “Come home” or anything normal ever. 

Ian spent a lot of nights awake, unable to fall asleep, thinking about Mickey. He’d be crashing on some stranger’s floor, or lying on the edge of some stranger’s bed trying desperately not to touch the guy as he snored and flopped around in his sleep, and Mickey would appear in his thoughts. It was like how he used to think about Monica--obsessively worrying about him. Worrying about fucking Mickey! Mickey who never wanted anyone to worry about him--who would’ve told him to fuck off if Ian had dared show any concern.

But still, was Mickey okay? His fucking psychotic father and now his fucking wife, that scary Russian whore. How the fuck was he dealing with any of that? And Mandy said he was drinking too much. As angry as Ian was at Mickey, he couldn’t shake the last time he had seen him, standing in his room which now had Svetlana’s shit all over it, seeming so alone and trying not to cry. At the time Ian thought it proved something--there Mickey stood, so hopeless…or helpless…powerless to even say a few simple words. So see? the two of them were doomed from the fucking start. But now he felt as if Mickey had needed something from him back then--what it was Ian had no idea--but something. Like Mickey was trapped in a fairy tale and Ian was the one who could break an evil wizard’s curse. He should’ve hacked through a forest of thorns or something like that. Maybe there had been a way to save them both but he hadn’t found it. And now Mickey was caught and Ian careened around an endless series of stranger’s beds, floors, and couches. Both of them were lost.

But these were just meanderings in the middle of the night--after too many hours of drugs and bad fucks. He did a ton of drugs during that time. Most of his bar-tending, dancing, and fucking was a blur. He had no idea if he was happy or sad because almost every single moment was self-medicated. Monica was around for a while and they partied together until she took off. Ned found him one night at the bar and took him home--that had been a miserable time because he felt like he had to pretend to care about Ned and he really didn’t give a shit anymore. And then there were a bunch of other people who meant less than nothing.

Ian doesn’t remember much about the night Mickey came and got him. But from the moment he awoke to find a pregnant Svetlana looming over him, things became more normal, despite Mickey’s wife threatening him with a claw hammer. He was back in the neighborhood so he went back home--it seemed simple now and he wondered why he avoided it for so long. He was back in his world and it felt exactly like what he once imagined doing for Mickey: it felt like Mickey rescued him. Ian was connected to his life again, and the things he said and did belonged to him once more.

A few nights later he asked Mickey to come to the club with him because he wanted to stitch together the two parts of his life to make one whole. And it worked. For a while it worked. He didn’t need drugs anymore because Mickey was there and being sober with Mickey (or, well, just a little buzzed together on beer or whatever) was better than doing drugs with anyone else. Probably because he actually liked Mickey. It was a sad discovery but around this time Ian realized that Mickey was the only person he had ever slept with that he actually, genuinely, liked. Thinking back on Ned and Kash--he might’ve loved them a little but he didn’t like really like them after a while. But besides really knowing how to fuck, Mickey made him smile and Mickey laughed at his dumb jokes. Sometimes he could hang out with Mickey and not say anything, or other times, when he couldn’t stop babbling, Mickey would listen to him, quirking his eyebrows up in that amused way of his, but he’d just listen for what felt like hours. 

That was the secret about Mickey that no one else knew--if he liked you he smiled at you, and he listened to everything you had to say, and he was always there when you needed him. Most people didn’t know this because he hated most people. 

Mickey definitely didn’t hate Ian, and in fact, Ian was beginning to suspect maybe Mickey loved him. They spent every night together. Mickey was at the club all the time. He left his wife to basically move into Ian’s house. He kissed Ian a lot and that was something Ian had never thought would happen. 

Everything else was the usual Gallagher brand of shitty, and Ian wasn’t sleeping very well, but he was happy. He had never been that happy before, like his heart was about to burst from his chest. If he felt too happy he gave Mickey all the credit. No drugs, just Mickey.

He had believed he loved Mickey before he joined the army, but it seemed like a weak sort of love compared to how he felt now. Before it had been mostly moony teenage bullshit--he wanted to stare into Mickey’s eyes for hours. Hold hands and make out. And, okay, he still wanted all of those things--but it felt more mature somehow. Maybe because they were living together. Maybe because they bickered and had meaningless couple’s arguments and slept in each other’s arms.

The more Mickey gave him, the more he wanted. Ian wanted to be a regular, honest to god, out couple. They almost were, anyway. Every single one of the Gallagher’s knew--even the shadowy presences of Frank and Monica had learned long ago. Mandy knew. Hell, even Svetlana knew. But, crucially, there were the other male Milkoviches who were all still in the dark--Mickey’s brothers, cousins, uncles, and his father. Ian couldn’t shake his fear of what would happen when Terry came back. Mickey didn’t say anything, but Ian knew that there was only one thing Mickey was afraid of and that was his father. Ian really didn’t blame him--Terry scared the shit out of him, too. A part of him wondered how Mickey and Mandy had even survived growing up with that psycho. 

Sometimes it seemed like the fear of Terry could make Mickey do anything. What would happen when he came back? Ian could still see Mickey standing at the altar in that cheap rented tux, binding himself to a whore because it was what Terry wanted. The worst thing hadn’t even been the thought that he was losing Mickey--the worst thing was watching Mickey voluntarily lose himself. It was like standing by watching Mickey cut off his own arm. 

So the day of the christening he sensed that Mickey was going because Terry might be there. And sure enough, he was. That entire day Ian drank, and drank, and drank. He couldn’t look away from the train wreck that was Mickey Milkovich grimly lying, plastering on fake smiles, and seeming once again like someone trapped by a monster with no idea how to break free. Ian didn’t have the solution, but eventually he couldn’t watch it anymore. He told Mickey he was done--he yelled some stupid shit about how Mickey was afraid--but Ian wasn’t really angry at Mickey, he was angry at Terry and everything else that was conspiring to destroy the man he loved. 

And somehow this had been the key. Calling him a pussy and walking away the second time--it broke the spell and Mickey saved himself. Ian was almost out the Alibi’s door when he heard Mickey make an announcement about being “fucking gay.” Ian just stood there, paralyzed by love. It was like every time he thought he loved Mickey as much as humanly possible, Mick would do something like this and Ian would love him more. Of course, then they had to fight Terry and the rest of Mickey’s shitty uncles, but when the fight was over Ian felt like he had won a war. Something as big as World War Three.

The next few days he spent with Mickey at his house, fucking in a few different rooms just to exercise Terry’s ghost. And Mandy seemed to have dropped Kenyatta because the bastard wasn’t around and the three of them just sat around shooting the shit and drinking beer. It was glorious. It was like they owned the fucking house that Terry used to terrorize--no, it was like they owned the fucking world. And then, of course, it all went to hell.

There was a morning when he woke up and the happiness from the days before was nowhere. Gone. He could barely move. He could barely think. There was just sadness resting on his chest and fogging up his brain. He tried remembering all the reasons he had to be happy but it only made him feel worse. He should be happy, he should, but he was failing, letting everyone down. Mickey and Mandy, Debbie and Fiona--eventually Lip--he heard the fear in their voices but he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He felt terrible. And terrible for feeling terrible. He heard their muffled arguments out in the living room. He couldn’t make out the words, but he got the sense of them. His brothers and sisters wanted to take him to a doctor and Mickey was saying no way. Ian had no idea whose side he was on--probably Mickey’s because the thought of going to a clinic exhausted him. 

A few days later, when he felt able to leave Mickey’s bed, he went to the bathroom and looked in the cracked Milkovich mirror. So this was the face that was supposed to look like Monica’s (although he had never seen a resemblance). The right side of the mirror was completed cracked, it broke his face into a spiders’ web of shards--here was his cheek, there was his eye--and nothing combined into an image that made sense. But if he moved slightly to the left, the other side of the mirror had just a few cracks running through the reflection of his face. He was there, he could see himself, but he was slightly broken. It reminded him of an old black and white movie he watched on WTTW a few years back--there had been a girl character who was totally fucked up. She was having an affair with her married boss and she was suicidal. She carried a cracked compact mirror around in her purse and when someone asked her why it was cracked she said, “I like it that way. Makes me look the way I feel.” 

He wasn’t Monica. He wasn’t cracked or damaged. He wasn’t. He made a vow right then and there to stop any and all drugs. To stop drinking, even. To get better. To get his shit together. He wasn’t going to be bipolar; he wasn’t going to turn into her. This was just a little depression--natural enough after all the shit he’d dealt with in the past year--and it stopped now.

He told himself every day how great things were. How great Mickey was. He began to have a little more energy--he tried to cut all negative thoughts off at the pass. And one day he woke up and he felt amazing. He went for a run and with each stride it was like he was shedding the past weeks--no not just the past weeks, he was jettisoning a whole lifetime of fear and sadness. You could make yourself unbroken, couldn’t you? Through sheer force of will.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy's back! A field trip ensues

Mandy came home the day after Ian’s run, like she knew things were okay again somehow. She wore the faded bruises of another recent black eye. It was morning, about 8 o’clock, and Ian was still in bed after getting home late from the club. Mickey and Svetlana sat at the dining room table; she had just finished nursing and was holding the baby, humming some crappy Russian folk song. He was reading the Tribune’s sports pages (he stole a copy from a stoop down the street) and ignoring the both of them.

The door opened and Mandy walked in, carrying her busted black backpack with her head held high like she was daring him to say something about the shiner. He did.

“Jesus Christ. What the FUCK, Mandy.”

“Don’t fucking start, okay?”

“So, where is that piece of shit? I swear to god, I’m gonna fucking kill him this time.”

“I don’t know, I left him in Detroit a week ago. I hitched a ride with a speed metal band and toured with them for a while.”

“Speed metal?” Svetlana asked, glancing up from the baby. Mandy ignored her, “How’s Ian?”

“He’s fine. He’s better. It was just some temporary bullshit.”

She smiled, dumped her backpack on the floor, and walked past them into the kitchen. She dug out a package of S'mores Pop Tarts from a cabinet, sat down at the table, and started gnawing on one cold.

“So, you really left him, huh?” Mickey asked her.

“Yeah. After a while, it’s boring getting beaten up, you know?” she smiled at him like it was all a high-larious joke. He rolled his eyes and went back to the paper, but he felt relieved.

“Who reads the fucking paper anymore?” Mandy asked, but she started thumbing through the sections strewn around the table until she found the movie reviews and began to read them. After a few minutes Ian came out of the bedroom and gave a happy shout when he saw Mandy--soon they were both hugging like they hadn’t seen each other in six fucking years instead of six weeks. 

“When you’d get back?” Ian asked.

“Two seconds ago.”

“So that asshole is still beating you up?” he said pointing to her eye.

“Yeah, but he’s gone. I left his ass in Michigan.”

“Seriously?”

“I spent the past week fucking a bass player and two guitarists.”

“What?!” Ian laughed and walked out to the kitchen to poke around in the fridge.

“Why is there never anything to eat in here?” he complained.

“Excuse you--there’s Pop Tarts, coffee, and I picked up some bagels from the place,” Mickey said.

“Bagels, really?” Ian asked excitedly and then he spotted them on the counter, “Thanks, Mick,” he said in a sing-song voice and started cutting one and toasting it. He called out to Mandy while he was fixing the bagel, “So what the fuck was happening with these musicians?”

She began to tell a story about giving a blow job to some guy in the band’s van while they were being pulled over by cops which made her and Ian laugh all through breakfast. Mickey drank coffee and pretended to read the paper but he was really listening to their laughter and trying to not feel so dangerously happy.

It was like the three of them had gone back in time and the bad weeks hadn’t happened. After Mickey came out at the Alibi, but before Ian had fallen into his hole of depression there were a few days when Svetlana and the baby weren’t around and neither were Mickey’s brothers. It was just him, Ian, and Mandy in the house. The night of the christening they had first, out of habit, gone to Ian’s but the place was filled with annoying kids that were Carl’s friends. Mickey said fuck this and they went back to his house. Mandy was there watching TV and she took one look at them and said, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Mickey,” Ian said placing his arm around Mickey’s shoulder, “Came out to whole Alibi.”

“No shit! Really?” she asked. Mickey shrugged yes.

“Holy fucking Christ--so what happened? Who beat you up? Dad? Or Uncle Ronnie?”

Mickey found he couldn’t really talk about it, so Ian said, “It was kind of a blur of Milkoviches. Mostly your dad, though.”

Mandy looked at Mickey who avoided her eyes. She said quietly, “Yeah. Well. The fucker’s fucked up.”

Ian nodded, “Anyway, the fight violated his probation so he’s back in jail and we’re here.”

“This calls for a drink,” and she went to the kitchen and returned with three shot glasses and some vodka.

“Vodka is all we have around here since the Russian whores arrived.” She poured them each a shot, they picked up their glasses, and Mandy said, “Congratulations you two, on being such colossal fags.”

“Cheers,” Ian said. And they all clinked glasses and downed the shots. 

After a few drinks Mandy left them alone and Mickey found he had never been so tired in his life. Ian practically carried him to the shower and helped him remove his shirt and jeans. As Ian turned the shower on and waited for the water to warm up, Mickey stared at the pile of blood-soaked clothes on the bathroom floor. He could remember every punch he threw at his father and every punch that his father landed on him. Ian gently nudged his shoulder, “Hey, the water’s ready.” Mickey stepped in and just stood under the spray, unable to move. After a few moments, Ian got in with him. He washed the blood off Mickey’s skin and massaged it out of his hair, and then Ian gave him a hug--just a long hug as the water pelted down. After a while Ian started gently running his hand up and down Mickey’s cock and Mickey said, “Nah, man, I’m too tired.”

But Ian just said, “I know, but I’m gonna take care of you,” and he knelt down on the hard tub floor and began to give Mickey a gloriously wet and sloppy blow job. Mickey leaned against the shower wall and closed his eyes and rested his fingers in Ian’s hair. The water was really warm, and it felt so good. When they finished Ian stood up and kissed Mickey on the cheek and Mickey sighed and chuckled, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They went to bed then, both of them practically fell into it, and they slept like the dead.

The next two days had been the best time Mickey could remember. His body ached, and he had a hundred bruises like he’d been run over by a dump truck, but everything else was perfect. During the day they just hung out, sometimes with Mandy if she was around, sometimes alone, watching TV, ordering pizza, and screwing in Mickey’s bed. The bed he used to hate because it was bought for his marriage, but now the bed he loved because it belonged to him and Ian. Soft and warm. Mickey had never felt so happy in his own house before. Never laughed as much. The best two days of his life spent in and out of a stupid bed. Maybe since Ian was better it would be like that again.

Now, in the kitchen Ian was bouncing around saying to Mandy and him, “We should do something today--what do you guys want to do?”

“Um, nothing?” Mandy said, “I just got back. I’m exhausted.”

“We could play mini-golf at that indoor place,” Ian offered as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I am not fucking doing that,” Mickey said, “Way too gay,” he held his hand up as Ian was about to make the obvious joke, “And don’t fucking say it.”

Ian frowned and went back to ping-ponging all around the living room. “How about Navy Pier?” Mickey shook his head and Mandy looked bored. “Water Tower Place? Shedd Aquarium? “

The Milkoviches said nothing and Ian flopped into the chair next to Mickey. He looked kind of lost and the Shedd Aquarium had reminded Mickey of something, so he offered, “Well…how ‘bout the Field Museum?”

Mandy turned to Mickey with a “Seriously?” expression on her face but Ian was all over the idea. “Yeah, the Field Museum--I haven’t been there in forever! Let’s do it. Today.”

Mickey shrugged his acceptance of the plan and when Mandy still didn’t say anything, Ian turned to her, “Mandy, please say you’re gonna come with us?”

“To a fucking museum?”

“Ah, come on, they’ve got dinosaurs and shit.”

She looked at Ian with amused fondness, “Won’t I cramp your style? Your massively gay romance?” 

“Of course not. C’mon, who wouldn’t want to spend the day with their boyfriend and their ex-girlfriend? What’s more fun than that?” he laughed and Mandy smiled, while Mickey didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or pleased.

“Well, how ‘bout you, Mick? You want me to come?” she asked.

“Whatever.” Since this was Milkovich for “of course I want you to come, if I didn’t I would’ve fucking told you to stay the fuck away” she finally accepted. 

“And who is going to watch baby while you enjoy yourselves? Maybe I would like a day off, too,” Svetlana complained. She was always in a bitch mood whenever she and Nikka broke up (which happened about every Wednesday as far as Mickey could tell, but they usually got back together by Thursday or Friday, so maybe she'd be cheerful by tonight).

“I’ll watch him for you tomorrow,” Ian said, and Mandy added, “Yeah me, too--and later in the week if you need it. I’m sure the diner fired me by now, so I’ll have some free time.”

Mickey said nothing while his boyfriend and his sister offered to take care of his kid. Svetlana gave him a pointed look but she seemed happy with Ian and Mandy’s offers to babysit and thankfully chose not to start any shit. Mickey knew it was stupid but the kid scared the hell out of him--he could barely glance at him without wanting to throw up. He felt bad--it wasn’t the kid’s fault--but he couldn’t help it. For some reason Svetlana herself had stopped bothering him long ago--she annoyed him and he hated her sometimes--but he could deal with her, mostly, and occasionally she could even be okay. 

Anyway, with Ian on their asses being all fucking bubbly and eager, Mickey and Mandy were hustled out of the house in less than 45 minutes. They took the Red Line north to the museum. It was early April now, but still fucking cold and windy. Ian couldn’t stop chattering and laughing and making them laugh the whole way there. Mandy had a bunch of stories about Michigan, too, and the two of them talked while Mickey listened, and every now and then threw in a sarcastic comment that would make Ian smile and Mandy roll her eyes.

At the museum the admission was now $18 (“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said, “Did they add a fucking Yeti to the collection that I didn’t hear about? Is there a fucking Loch Ness monster made of diamonds in there?”) and he was just about to suggest sneaking in somehow when Ian insisted on paying for all three of them, “My treat, okay?” he said.

“You blow a few dozen retirees last night or something?” Mickey asked as Ian paid the cashier and handed them those stupid little metal things that you put somewhere to prove you belonged.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian said, trying to act annoyed but failing. As they entered the great hall, he then surprised Mickey by ruffling his hair and planting a big kiss smack on his mouth. Mickey’s arms flailed around a bit and when Ian pulled back, smirking, Mickey said, “Hey!” and he couldn’t resist a half-panicked look around but it was just families and school groups oohing and aahing at the elephants and the dinosaurs and no one seemed to give a shit about two gay boys.

Mickey felt his heart pounding in his chest and was annoyed at himself for still being afraid sometimes. He punched Ian’s arm but then kissed him back to prove that he wasn’t scared of anything. The kiss went on a little longer than it probably should have and Ian was gripping his hair when they both heard Mandy say, “Ahem, Losers!” and they pulled apart.

“Can you two try to remember I’m here today? You know, a living breathing person who gets grossed out watching her older brother slobber all over her best friend?”

“Sorry,” Ian apologized to her. 

She smiled at them and said, “Whatever. So let’s go do this lame fucking museum.”

They started with the dinosaurs, of course. All three of them were kind of mesmerized by the T-Rex skeleton and didn’t say anything for a while as they stood craning their necks to look up at it.

Finally, Mickey asked, “Why the fuck did they give it a dumb-ass name like Sue?”

“I think it was named after the woman who found it,” Ian explained.

“Can you imagine those fucking teeth getting ahold of you?” Mickey asked with a touch of awe in his voice as he stared at the huge T-Rex jaw with its ugly jagged incisors. 

“I did my second grade dinosaur report on T-Rexes,” Mandy said. At their school in second grade, everyone picked a dinosaur species and you had to write a report on it, draw the fucking thing, and then make a speech about it. Mickey said, “Me too--anyone with half a brain did T-Rex. Mrs. Samm tried to get me to pick some stupid plant-eater but I said no fucking way.” It was the only time in his life that he had ever gotten a ‘B’ on a paper he actually wrote. 

“I chose Stegosaurus,” Ian said with a smile, kind of laughing at himself, and Mickey grumbled, “Of course you did.” But god help him he found it sort of cute. Ian then grabbed one of Mickey’s hands, and one of Mandy’s, and pulled them along to the full dinosaur exhibit.

Wandering through it, they split up to take things at their own pace. Mickey didn’t feel like reading any of the words next to the dinosaurs and he just kind of walked around, glancing at the bones of creatures dead for millions of years. He hadn’t been to this museum since he was a kid. The first time he came was in second grade for a class trip for that same dinosaur project. He had never been to a museum before and he’d expected to be bored and was planning to torment Bobby Ruggio all day for calling his family “trash” the week before, but he forgot about Bobby when he saw the T-Rex. He listened to every last thing the guide had to say, and he kept like, imagining things--what the dinosaurs looked like, and what the earth looked like back then--and how awesome it would’ve been to see a T-Rex come running out of the jungle and just hack into a little Gallimimus dinosaur or something. 

When he got home he told his mom about it and she laughed at how enthusiastic he was (he was never enthusiastic about anything) and she dug around for a copy of Jurassic Park that she, Mandy, and Mickey all watched--even though eventually Mandy had to cover her eyes and hide under a couch cushion, saying, “Just tell me what’s happening!” and their mom said, “Sweetie, you don’t have to watch this with us--you can watch cartoons in your room,” but even then Mandy never wanted to be scared of anything, so she pulled her head out of the cushions and forced herself to white knuckle watch it.

When it was over, Mickey said in hushed tones, “That was the single greatest movie of all time,” but his mother felt bad for how scared Mandy had gotten and so they all made Rice Krispy treats in the kitchen which were Mandy’s favorite. It was a nice memory--one of his best. He couldn’t remember where his dad had been at the time, probably in jail, which was why there was no hint of anxiety or fear wrapped up in it.

Ian found him near the Stegosaurus.

“Ha! See, they’re pretty cool--admit it.” 

Mickey shook his head and tried not to smile. He sometimes felt like he hadn’t smiled in years until Ian Gallagher showed up and it still seemed like something he shouldn’t be doing. You were asking for the world to shit on you if you smiled like an idiot all the time, weren’t you?

“C’mon,” Ian said as he put one hand on Mickey’s shoulder and pointed with the other at the dinosaur, “I mean look at all those plates on its back--no one fucking knows what they were even for! Isn’t that cool? Like you can imagine anything you want about the plates! Maybe they were to regulate its temperature, or maybe they were for protection--no one fucking knows!” He was saying this shit in an overly enthusiastic, dorky voice to make Mickey laugh and it worked. Mickey started laughing and then Ian joined in and they couldn’t stop. They were so loud that one of the guards frowned at them, which got them going again.

The rest of the day was like that--just hours of acting fucking stupid and laughing. Mandy wanted to see the Hall of Gems and they almost got kicked out because Ian pretended to try and steal a fifty-pound amethyst. They went into the World of Birds and Mandy couldn’t stop making the lame rhyme “The WORLD of BIRLDS” in a really loud voice which set Ian off. They calmed down a little in the reptile exhibit, but then did get kicked out of the Egyptian mummy room for laughing uncontrollably and ‘bothering the other museum visitors.’ Mickey couldn’t even really figure out what they were laughing at--but he knew it had been funny.

They ate a dinner of cookies, chips, and pop in the museum café and then it was time for Ian to go to work at the club. He was taking the bus north and Mandy and Mickey were heading back south. (Mickey thought he should stop by the Alibi for a few hours and see how the business was doing.) When they exited the museum the sun was getting low and it was cold for April. Before Ian split off from them to catch his bus he hugged Mandy tightly and said, “Thanks for coming with us, today.” Then to Mickey’s surprise he hugged him too, and whispered in his ear, “You’re the best, Mick--d’you know that?” and he kissed him briefly and walked away shouting to them, “I’ll see you later tonight!” 

Mandy and Mickey stood there for a long time watching him walk away, until he turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Finally, Mickey said, “Well, come on, it’s fucking freezing out here.” Their train took a while to arrive and by the time they got on Mandy looked exhausted. They sat next to each other and soon Mickey felt her head drop against his shoulder. He looked down at her, asleep. Falling asleep on his shoulder was something she hadn’t done since they were kids. For a second he wanted to shake her off--it was what they always did in his family--instantly shake off any affection or closeness because it was weak and soft--but then he just thought, ah, screw it. Who cares? He was already fucking gay. He was already in love with a boy who had picked a fucking Stegosaurus for his dinosaur report. He was turning soft, he was turning weak. If he let his sister fall asleep on his shoulder it was just one more way he proved it. And for the first time he thought maybe that was okay.


	4. Chapter 4

Happiness. Just happiness. Everything was perfect day after day--until Ian stopped worrying about being bipolar. Well, almost stopped worrying. The weather grew warmer--finally a sort-of spring after the worst winter any of them remembered. Ian and Mickey snuck into a Sox game once more and this time they managed to find their way into seats 20 rows back from the dugout. And the Sox won. They snuck into Wrigley Field, too, because Mickey had always wanted to see the place, at least once, and when his dad had been around attending a Cubs game was an impossibility. It was almost (but not quite) funny, Ian reflected, that being gay and being a Cubs fan seemed to occupy the same axis point on Terry Milkovich’s “I’m going to fucking kill you!” continuum. But Terry probably thought that being gay and being a Cubs fan were, in fact, equivalent states of being. If you were gay you were a Cubs fan and if you were a Cubs fan you were gay.

Ian spent five nights a week at the Fairy Tail--Tuesday through Saturday, slept in in the mornings--and pretty much stayed with Mickey the whole time. His family missed him, he knew, and he tried to make it home for a few dinners each week--and sometimes Debbie or Carl would stop by the Milkoviches to hang out. Carl played video games with him and Mickey, and Debbie usually talked about something top secret and boy-related with Mandy. 

Lip stayed away because things were awkward between him and Mandy right now, and Fiona stayed away because she was angry with Mickey for arguments they had during Ian’s week in bed. She still thought he should go see a doctor. Every time Ian went home, Fiona said brightly, “So, have you stopped by the clinic yet?” as though it were something they’d agreed upon and he had simply forgotten.

He responded in the same cheerful, blasé tone, “Um, yeah, I don’t think I need to do that. I was just depressed for a little while.” And Fiona would frown but neither of them would say anything more about it.

Except for these occasional Gallagher sorties, Ian felt like he was becoming an honorary Milkovich. Even Svetlana began to accept him since he babysat Yevgeny so much. One day Mickey was at the Alibi and Svetlana was home sick with the flu. Ian helped with Yevgeny all day and went to the store in the afternoon to buy 7-Up and saltines for her. When he came back and put the food on the coffee table, she looked up from the couch where she’d been napping under a pile of mismatched blankets.

“Thanks,” she said. Ian nodded and began to walk past her into Mickey’s room. 

“Ian,” she said sitting up on the couch. He paused--it was the first time she had ever called him by his name, and not “orange boy” or “carrot boy.”

“Yeah?” he asked warily.

“Thanks for watching baby all the time, too.”

“No problem. He’s a cute kid.”

“You have lots of brothers and sisters, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’re good with him. Better than his father.”

Ian didn’t know what to say to that--because of course it was true. Mickey could barely stand to look at his son and if Yevgeny was in the same room with him, his eyes would skitter around the baby, never quite landing on him directly. Besides Svetlana, Ian and Mandy were the ones that took care of Yevgeny and he sometimes wondered if Yevgeny would grow up thinking Ian was his dad. 

So Ian just nodded at her and left the room, but after that conversation any remaining tension between him and Svetlana mostly drained away. She was actually an okay person, once she stopped threatening to kill him. Her on and off-again girlfriend, Nikka, was really nice, too. An actual honest to god hooker with a heart of gold who had about a million different hobbies--the woman seemed incapable of sitting still. One of her interests, because she belonged to some weird South Side Pentecostal church, was helping people. She was always giving money away to homeless people in the street and Svetlana complained about it constantly, “Nikka--you’d give shirt off your back to a bum even if it is fucking freezing!” she’d yell.

“So what? If he’s colder than me, why not? What’s wrong with helping people?!” Nikka would reply, her lazy eye darting everywhere. At this point, Svetlana would usually respond very angrily in Russian and then they devolved into a Russian screaming match that no one else in the house could understand. They fought all the time, but Nikka was desperately in love with Svetlana and Svetlana liked being the object of so much affection, so even though they broke up weekly, they always got back together.

Another hobby Nikka had was cleaning obsessively. And while Ian and Svetlana were grateful to her for the amount of time she spent sweeping floors and organizing clutter (the Milkovich house became nearly livable because of her), she annoyed Mandy to no end.

“If that Russian bitch messes with my stuff ONE MORE TIME, I’m going to fucking shove that broom handle down her fucking throat!” Mandy would yell after Nikka had dusted all of her CDs, but Nikka would only shrug, smile, and pretend she didn’t understand what Mandy was saying.

Nikka was also apparently in some kind of swing band and she practiced her trumpet a few times in the Milkovich house, but Mickey quickly put a stop to that by threatening to melt the thing into scrap metal. So now, she went out to the back yard and played there. It was slightly quieter for all of them inside the house, but still irritating. They let her get away with it, however, because it annoyed the neighbors more than it annoyed them. She played the same songs over and over again: “Moon River,” “A Fine Romance,” and “Mood Indigo.” Since these tunes were in the air daily, Ian and Svetlana often found themselves humming them without realizing until Mickey or Mandy told them to please shut the fuck up.

And, finally, Nikka was also great at chess, much better than she was at trumpet playing, and a board appeared in the Milkovich living room. Eventually she and Mickey always had a game going. They never actually sat across from each other to play it, but one would make a move, and a few hours later the other would walk by and make another, and this would go on for days. 

This surprised Ian and he said to Mickey once, “Where’d you learn to play chess?”  
Mickey seemed embarrassed about knowing how to play, he practically blushed, but he said, “When I was 11, during the summer my dad had me selling drugs in this dinky fucking park on the North side. There were these old Polish guys who played chess there and it gets fucking boring hanging out in a park all day, you know? I mean, you only make two or three sales an hour. So they taught me to play because I had nothing better to do.”

Ian thought of Mickey at age 11 selling drugs by himself for weeks on end. Almost all of Mickey’s childhood stories were like this, Ian reflected, sad but without Mickey realizing how sad they were.

Mickey and Nikka were evenly matched at chess so they never got bored. Sometimes he’d win and sometimes she’d win. And then they’d start another game.

The spring was a good time for almost everybody. Fiona was waitressing at a diner and seemed stable again. Lip was doing well in school and his new girlfriend was decent enough. Debbie and Carl moped about their respective love affairs but it didn’t seem too serious. Mandy found a job at a restaurant where she didn’t have to wear a squirrel on her head, and she made better tips. And, best of all Kenyatta was gone. All the Russian working girls, including Nikka and Svetlana, were happy because they were earning money hand over fist (literally) now that the weather was warm. One day Svetlana demanded a raise for the prostitutes and Mickey and Kev agreed to it--all sex acts were now $2 more per pop. Svetlana also announced she was through giving head, “only hand jobs from this day forward,” and this cheered her up enormously. 

They kept tabs on Terry’s incarceration through Iggy. After the christening, the Milkoviches split into two camps. There was Mickey, Mandy, and Svetlana on the one hand, and most of Mickey’s uncles, brothers, and cousins on the other. These other Milkoviches, especially the older ones, refused to associate with a known “queer.” The one person who moved between the two factions was Iggy. He never mentioned Mickey being gay, and he ignored Ian, but he didn’t treat Mickey any differently than before. He dropped by the house sometimes--occasionally even crashed there for a few days--and Mickey once helped him out with a criminal scheme that Ian didn’t even want to know about. Iggy let Mickey and Mandy know that Terry wasn’t due to be released for at least another six months, and it might even be nine months to a year. Everyone was relieved.

That was the thing, they all had other places they _could_ go. Like if Terry came back, Mickey and Mandy could stay with Ian at the Gallagher’s. Svetlana and Yevgeny could move into a shitty apartment with Nikka. But the thought of splitting up felt like a waste. As weird as it was, they shuffled along well together. The two lesbian prostitutes, the gay stripper, the gay pimp, the straight waitress, and the baby. They worked somehow. 

Ian and Mandy had Monday nights off, and since it was a slow night at the Alibi, Svetlana, Mickey, and Nikka were usually around, too. Ian began making a big dinner for everyone on Mondays--kind of an imitation of Gallagher suppers. And while no one _admitted_ to wanting to eat together, it became a regular thing. On Mondays everyone would “happen” to find themselves at home and they’d eat together. They’d get a little drunk on vodka and cheap beer, and Mickey and Mandy would bicker, and Svetlana and Nikka would dote on Yevgeny (who was all smiles now--he was becoming a seriously cute kid who looked more like Mickey and Mandy each day) and Ian would just enjoy being there--enjoy being himself. He felt like he was more himself than he had been in ages. Being Mickey’s boyfriend. Spending all his time surrounded by Milkoviches and Russian prostitutes. He hoped that it could last, if not forever, than at least for a little while longer.


	5. Chapter 5

It begins to go wrong and Mickey can sense it. Ian doesn’t even seem to know, but Mickey does. Mandy does, too. Her eyes follow Ian around and she barely eats anymore. She’s always rushing out the house to get to work, to go see somebody. Kenyatta makes an appearance and just like that--bang--they’re back together and she’s hardly ever around. Mickey worries about her, but he worries more about Ian.

Ian has way too much energy. It’s worse than before--he’s up all night putting a 2,000 piece jigsaw puzzle together on the living room floor. He’s talking a mile a minute. He’s playing Chinese checkers against himself. He’s cooking tons of stuff. It’s almost funny because Ian decides he’s going to bake the perfect loaf of bread and suddenly there are loaves all over the house. He’s dropping off loaves at the Gallagher’s. At Kev and V’s. At the Alibi. At Sheila’s. He’s baking for the guys at the fucking Fairy Tail. There’s multi-grain, white, wheat, sourdough, and rye. There’s always dough rising and dough baking and the whole house smells like fucking yeast.

Only Nikka is brave enough, or stupid enough, to say anything. She comes home one day, to find the kitchen a mess of flour and bowls and she says, “Ian! I just cleaned the kitchen this morning! You baked eight loaves yesterday--why you need more bread?”

Ian is standing at the counter proofing some yeast, “I know, but I’m trying to perfect a few recipes. I think if I can get them just right maybe I can market them?” He has already mentioned this idea ten times to Mickey who sits at the dining room table, counting money, paying bills, and trying not to feel like his world is splitting apart.

Nikka stares at Ian, “I worry about you.” She likes Ian. Of everyone in the Milkovich house he’s the one who’s nicest to her, who always says please and thank you. “You should lie down for a while. Rest.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, annoyed.

“You haven’t slept in days. This is no good, you’re--”

Ian throws a spoon into the sink. It clatters hard and Nikka catches Mickey’s eye. A worried glance passes between them, and Mickey tries to tell her without speaking to walk away and leave it alone. 

“I’m just baking bread, Nikka, okay? So lay off.” Ian says.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “It’s very nice bread,” and she leaves to go into Terry’s old room, which has become hers and Svetlana’s.

Mickey doesn’t give a shit about Nikka (well, she’s all right he supposes) but he hates to see Ian being mean because Ian is never mean--at least the regular Ian isn’t. So he says, “Since when are you such an asshole?”

Ian sighs and punches down a dough ball that’s rising in a blue bucket. He ran out of bowls two hours ago and has started using whatever else he can find.

“I know, I know, I’ll apologize.”

Later, when Nikka comes out the bedroom with her trumpet and walks through the kitchen to practice in the back yard, Ian says, “Nikka, I’m sorry about before.”

“It’s okay, Ian,” she smiles and pats him on the arm. Ian smiles back. She walks outside and Mickey feels relieved as they hear Nikka play a song she’s recently added to her limited line up, “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Ian laughs, “Do you think she’ll ever get good at that?”

“No.”

Ian laughs harder, and Mickey tries to catch his same mood. Tries to feel like the bread baking is just some eccentric Gallagher bullshit and doesn’t mean anything more. 

After a few moments, with the sound of saints marching in still ringing through the air, Ian comes over to Mickey, leans down, and kisses him hard. He pulls away to say, “You look kinda hot sitting there balancing your bank account.”

Mickey rolls his eyes.

“So, you wanna fuck?” Ian asks.

“You have like ten different loaves in ten different stages right now,” he replies. Mickey can even hear two separate kitchen timers gently ticking the seconds away in tandem because two loaves are currently baking in the oven.

“So?”

Lately all Ian wants to do is fuck (and bake) and as much as Mickey loves it, he feels less like he’s fucking Ian and more like he’s fucking a symptom of something. It was like that one time at the Club when Ian was giving him a lap dance and tweaking like a little bitch--Mickey doesn’t like Ian like that. He likes plain, unadulterated Ian. Not some drug cocktail or some manic head fuckery.

But Ian needs him right now, and it’s not like the sex is bad, so Mickey says, “Yeah, all right,” and they go into their bedroom and Ian’s pretty rough with Mickey. They never really discuss this--but sometimes Ian likes to take control and Mickey likes it, too. So Ian bends Mickey over the bed and holds him down and pretty much fucks the shit out of him. So good and hard that it’s actually kind of nice because it takes Mickey’s mind off of everything else. For a brief while it’s just Ian’s body and his body and there’s no room in his head for worry. But as Ian and Mickey are zipping back up the smoke alarm goes off and when Ian runs and opens the door there’s the smell of burnt bread, and Ian’s yelling, “Shit! Shit!” and running into the kitchen and Nikka comes back in and she’s trying to help but she’s just in the way.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he yells to her. Mickey climbs up on a chair and switches the alarm off. Ian has pulled the burnt loaf out and is gazing at it helplessly. Mickey and Nikka stand back unsure of what to do. Ian’s got a look on his face that Mickey can barely deal with. The timers still tick the seconds away. Ian must’ve incorrectly set the one timer for the loaf that just burned.

“Well, you’ve got about nine other fucking loaves in here ready to bake, so…” Mickey says gesturing at all the other bowls. Ian wipes tears out of his eyes.

“Sorry, Ian,” Nikka says.

“I got distracted,” and Ian leaves the kitchen and collapses on the couch. He puts his head in his hands, “It’s not normal to feel this way, is it? To feel like the world’s ending cause I burnt a fucking loaf of bread?”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say. Nikka sits down next to Ian and puts her hand on his back, trying to comfort him. Ian’s head remains in his hands. Mickey stands caught between the kitchen and living room. He remembers telling Fiona he would take care of Ian. What a stupid fucking thing to say. In his whole life who has he ever taken care of? He leaves, goes into their bedroom, and paces around. What do normal people do to cheer other people up? The only thing he can think of is how, long ago, his mom used to make him green Jell-O if his dad gave him a bloody nose or if he came home scowling after a bad day. He gets an idea and returns to the living room. Ian and Nikka are still on the couch and she has her arm around him, but at least Ian has stopped crying. They turn when they hear Mickey.

“Sorry, Mick,” Ian says.

“For what?”

He laughs sadly, “For crying about bread. For being insane.”

“You’re not insane.”

Ian laughs again but doesn’t respond. Mickey says, “Get your coat--we’re leaving.”

“What?”

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

“But the bread--“

“Jesus Christ, just take the other loaf out of the oven--who gives a shit?”

Ian is so defeated he just nods. Nikka says she’ll watch the bread and take it out of the oven when it’s ready--and punch down the other numerous dough balls when they need to be kneaded. Ian thanks her and Mickey drags Ian out of the house. It’s May but it’s fucking cold again--35 degrees if you can believe that shit. They take their coats and walk to the train. They head north. Mickey doesn’t tell Ian where they’re going and Ian doesn’t ask. Doesn’t say anything. He just slumps in his seat and Mickey panics inside, wondering what will happen later. If Ian will be in bed again tomorrow--unreachable. 

They get off the train at Belmont and walk a few blocks. When Ian sees the red and white sign of their destination he actually smiles, “Oberweis? Really, Mick?”

“Why the fuck not?”

When they enter, the ice cream store is nearly empty cause it’s so cold out. Ian orders a vanilla milkshake complete with whipped cream and a little wafer cookie. Mickey rolls his eyes and says, “I always knew you were vanilla,” and Ian says, “Yeah, a vanilla who fucked the shit out of you an hour ago,” and the teenage girl behind the register gets wide-eyed and keeps glancing between them as Mickey orders a marshmallow sundae.

“Marshmallow sundae? And you’re making fun of me for ordering a vanilla milkshake?”

“Fuck off, what’s wrong with marshmallow?”

“Kinda girly,” Ian says, but it’s such a nonsensical comment and this, combined with the fact that they’re standing in an actual fucking ice cream parlor, makes them both laugh. They don’t stop laughing until their order is called and then they sit at one of the tables that has a chess board and eat their ice cream.

Ian gestures at the board between them, “You wanna play?” he asks.

“You don’t know how.”

“You could teach me.”

So he does. They ask the girl behind the counter for one of the plastic chess sets and then spend an hour and a half in a fucking Oberweis Dairy as grandparents bring their grandkids for ice cream cones and a whole little league team comes in for milkshakes. It’s so fucking wholesome it feels like they’ve stepped into a parallel universe. Mickey teaches Ian what each piece is called and how it moves across the board. He shows him some different opening strategies you can take and what they may lead to. They finish their ice cream. A little girl comes over and stares at them until her mother says, “Ask if you can watch them play, sweetie.”

“Can I watch you play?”

“Sure,” Ian says. She watches them both for a while until she realizes that Ian doesn’t know what he’s doing--Mickey does. And so she asks Mickey to teach her about chess and he somehow finds himself explaining rooks, pawns, and knights to an eight-year-old child, trying not to swear too much as he does it, while Ian smiles that smile he gives to Mickey sometimes--like Mickey is the best thing Ian has ever seen. That look used to panic Mickey but now he kinda likes it. It’s a real, true Ian type of expression. Eventually the girl and her family have to leave. The place is deserted now. Ian and Mickey’s empty glass dishes from the long-ago eaten ice cream sit next to the board. 

“So, you ready to go, Bobby Fischer?” Mickey asks Ian.

“Yeah.”

As they stand up, put on their coats, and Ian says, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For bringing me here.”

“I just wanted a sundae.”

“C’mon, Mick. Seriously. Thank you.” Mickey doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to be thanked--he’s just grateful that Ian seems better now. 

“Whatever. Let’s go.” As they exit the ice cream parlor and walk down the street, Mickey wishes that it wasn’t lame to hold hands. And then, as if he could hear his thoughts, Ian slips his hand into his. Even though it is lame, Mickey doesn’t pull away. They walk to the train and head home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not super familiar with trigger warning protocol, and I wasn’t planning to have descriptions of actual violence in this work, but in this chapter I found myself writing about a pretty violent thing Iggy & Mickey once did to an old boyfriend of Mandy’s. I can’t really judge how upsetting it is--I think it’s about in line with something that might’ve happened on The Sopranos? Anyway it’s the paragraph that begins with “Mickey doesn’t tell Ian this, but a few years ago, when Mandy was about 14, she had another boyfriend who hit her.” This is the paragraph to skip if reading about violence triggers you.

Mickey was able to fix that day when the bread burned, but the following days are another story. Ian’s sleeping less and less. He comes home at 3 or 4 AM and wakes Mickey up to fuck, and then maybe lies down for an hour before he’s up doing something--reading, writing, cooking, making fucking origami, playing solitaire. Eventually, there are some nights Ian doesn’t come home at all and he tells Mickey he spent the night at the Gallagher’s but when Mickey asks Carl or Debbie, they haven’t seen him. 

“Is he okay?” Debbie asks Mickey, “Why is he saying he’s staying here if he’s not?”

“I don’t know.” 

Mickey wishes the explanation could be as simple as maybe Ian is cheating on him. At this point he believes he’d live with that, as long he got Ian at least some of the time. A healthy Ian. But he knows the truth is probably that Ian is cheating on him, plus doing fuck knows what else. The nights when Ian texts him to say he isn’t coming home, Mickey is the one who can’t sleep. He almost doesn’t care who Ian is fucking--almost--he assumes it’s random old queers from the Fairy Tail. Mostly he worries Ian will do something stupid. That he’ll take too many drugs. That he’ll pass out in an alley somewhere with no one around who cares if he lives or dies.

Everything really, really, really continues to go to shit. Mandy has huge black and blue marks all down her arms, like Kenyatta has been throwing her around. Ian and Mandy have huge fights about it. Mickey comes home one afternoon from the Alibi to find them screaming in each other’s face.

“He treats you like a piece of shit! He’s killing you!”

“Please, you’re so dramatic. What the fuck do you know, anyway? You know nothing about him--I swear, this is your latent racism talking.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? ‘Latent racism?’ Where the fuck did you get that from? Look at your fucking arms! Remember when he beat your face all to hell? Why are you standing for this?”

“I don’t have to fucking justify myself to you!” Just then, both of them catch sight of Mickey standing near the front door.

“Will you fucking tell him to get off my back?” she demands to Mickey. Ian mutters something and turns away to squeeze lemon juice into a blender that’s filled with an off-white concoction. It’s probably fucking mayonnaise because lately Ian’s moved on from bread and started making about 50 fucking kinds of gourmet mayo variations.

Mickey shakes his head and walks past them to the fridge to grab a beer which he really fucking needs right now.

“I’m not dealing with this,” he says.

“Yeah, sure, why give a fuck about your sister?” Ian asks sarcastically. Mandy gives Ian a death glare and Mickey feels like putting his fist through the wall but instead leaves the kitchen, sits down on the living room couch, and turns on _Judge Judy_. 

Ian turns the blender on and over the noise Mandy starts yelling about how she has always taken care of herself and will continue to take care of herself forever.

“I grew up with Terry fucking Milkovich as a father--I can handle anything, especially Kenyatta.”

Ian stops the blender and Mickey hears him say really sadly, “But why would you want to? Why do you have to handle this shit at all?”

“Because that’s life, Ian. Christ, you’re naïve sometimes.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are--you expect everyone to be _nice_ all the goddamn time! What the fuck is that?! People are shits!”

“Well, you’re not a shit! You’re fucking incredible--”

“Fuck off.”

“Mandy, I’m serious. You’re an amazing person. You deserve--”

“Fuck off, FUCK OFF!” she’s practically shrieking now and Mickey turns his head to see his sister shove Ian out of the way and run out the back door. Nothing is said for a long moment and then Ian shrugs at him sadly, “You two are the most depressing people on the planet.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Ian doesn’t reply and returns to his mayo. 

Later, after Judge Judy has presided over two cases involving roommates breaking shit and not paying their share of the rent, Mickey comes out to the kitchen where Ian is now making biscotti. He starts in on him about Kenyatta. Since Mandy’s not going to leave him, Ian wants to “do something” to the guy.

“Like what? What’d you have in mind, huh Killer?”

“I don’t know--what the fuck does your family normally do? Aren’t you guys constantly hurting people? You were gonna to kill Frank that one time just because he walked in on us.”

Mickey rolls his eyes at that but then starts laughing. It’s the first time he’s laughed in days. He can’t help himself, it’s really funny. He was actually going to kill Ian’s drunk father, how crazy was that? What the fuck was he thinking?

Ian’s not laughing and Mickey quiets down, “Ah, c’mon, Ian--I didn’t do it.”

“Well, why didn’t you? You must’ve killed a dozen guys, why didn’t you kill him?” 

Mickey blinks at how readily Ian believes he’s practically a hit man. He then places his hand gently on Ian’s arm, gazes into his boyfriend’s eyes and says, “I’m gonna tell you something I’ve never told another living soul. It’s awful, but true,” he pauses and Ian waits. Mickey takes a deep breath, “I, Mickey Milkovich, have never killed anyone before.” And then he bursts out laughing again. Ian grows even more irritated. There’s a certain streak of Milkovich humor he just doesn’t appreciate sometimes.

“Are you joking? Jesus, what the hell are you laughing at?”

Mickey sighs and runs his hand through his hair, “I’m not joking--well I am because it’s funny--but no, I’ve never killed anyone. When I was little my dad mostly tried to keep me outta shit like that,” and thinking about it, he supposes it’s one good thing he can say about his father, “and when I got older I mostly tried to avoid it. So even with Frank--it was too much to shoot some poor fucker in the head just because he was stupid, drunk, and knew I liked getting fucked by his son. Plus, you know, he’s a piece of shit, but he’s still your dad.”

And now finally Ian smiles, “You know something? You’re not as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Fuck off.” Ian says shit like this all the time--words that freak Mickey out and leave him not knowing whether to feel frightened or pleased. Is it a good thing that Ian doesn’t think he’s scary? Or does it mean that Mickey really is a pussy deep down, like his father always said? It isn’t even about being gay anymore--it runs deeper than that. Like what he feels for Ian, all this fucking love and concern--what the fuck does that mean? What should he be feeling? 

But as Ian pours out a teaspoon of almond extract and adds it to something else he’s making, he’s already returned to the Kenyatta topic.

“You, me, and Iggy. We’ll fuck him up.”

“No.”

“Why the fuck not? Jesus, what does it take for you to care about what’s happening with Mandy?”

“I care--but it’s not gonna do any good. We beat him up and then she’ll hate us. We kill him and then she’ll _really_ hate us and she’ll just find some new loser to knock her around.”

Mickey doesn’t tell Ian this, but a few years ago, when Mandy was about 14, she had another boyfriend who hit her. Jason Heyer. Mickey found out about it after she came home with not one, but two black eyes, and he and Iggy decided to take care of the problem. Jason was one of the “wealthy” kids in the neighborhood. His dad was a truck dispatcher and his mom a dental hygienist. His parents gave Jason a gray Ford Explorer that he drove to school every day. One day Iggy and Mickey waited outside his house when his parents were still at work. After he drove home they jumped him in his garage and held him down as they took one hand, and then the other, and slammed each one in Jason’s Ford Explorer car door over and over again. Eventually his hands were a bloody, mangled mess and he passed out from the pain. The guy never really had what you might call “normal” working hands after that. So the problem seemed solved. Jason left Mandy alone (and he never told the cops who hurt him because he was too scared of Milkovich retribution) and she didn’t speak to them for two months. 

Mickey thought that had been the end of it, but the Kenyatta thing--and with Mandy going back to the guy again and again--made him realize that it wasn’t over and might not ever be over.

He says to Ian, “If Mandy wants to be with a douchebag, then she’s gonna be. There’s nothing we can do.”

“You could talk to her.”

“What?”

Ian speaks real slowly like he’s addressing a moron, “You, Mickey Milkovich, could talk to your sister, Mandy Milkovich, and tell her that you’re worried about her. That she needs to leave this relationship. That she deserves better than some asshole who hits her.”

“And you think that’s gonna work? Have you met my sister?”

“Yeah, I have. I think I know her pretty well.”

“She’s not gonna listen to me. You’re the only one she ever listens to--and look how well you did.”

“I’m not her older brother.”

“Why the fuck does that matter? What does being her brother have to do with anything? She’s never given two shits about what I have to say.”

Ian sighs, “Fucking hell--seriously? Mickey, your dad and a shit load of your brothers, uncles, and cousins have treated her like crap her entire fucking life. There’s like two people who care about her in your family and that’s you and Iggy. And there’s only one Milkovich she actually chooses to spend time with and that’s you. She loves you.”

Mickey blinks at him. _She loves him?_ Where does Gallagher come up with this shit? Ian’s not finished, “And you know, since the rest of your family has been treating her like dirt for the past 17 years, maybe you could, as her fucking brother, tell her she doesn’t deserve it. Tell her you love her and you want her to be happy. That she deserves to be happy and safe and loved.”

Mickey is still silent, so Ian continues, “I think that might, you know, help things. If you said all that.”

“You’re crazy,” is all Mickey can manage say.

Ian slumps and says, “Yeah. I guess. So don’t. Don’t say anything. And we’ll watch her suffer. And be black and blue.”

“Ian--“ Mickey doesn’t even know where to begin. He wants to say that Ian doesn’t know the first thing about Mandy or their family. And if Mickey said he loved her she’d laugh in his face. And if he told her she deserved better she’d tell him to go fuck himself. 

It’s funny, but until Ian said it just now, it never occurred to Mickey that, yeah, he and Mandy actually are pretty close. Or as close as two people in his family ever got. He always thought ‘close’ meant what the Gallaghers had--that constant laughing and teasing and smiling and shit. They were always so goddamn happy to be around each other. He and Mandy never acted like that. But Mandy visited him whenever he was in Juvie. Practically every week--the only Milkovich who did. And she’d ask him what she could bring him. Sure, she’d ask him by saying, “So asshole, what do you want to jerk off to in here?” but she asked him. And he’d invent some lie about hetero porn and she’d bring that, but she’d always slip a Sudoku puzzle book in the porn stack, too, because she knew he liked those. He never told her how much he relied on those puzzles to take his mind off Juvie--he would’ve gone nuts without them.

Mandy. His little sister.

When they were really young they used to color on the floor together in the crappy coloring books their mom shoplifted from the dollar store. Mandy would make all the fairy tale characters have blood and pus dripping out of their noses and he’d laugh at how disgusting she made them. They’d sit outside and stare at the ants running around the ant hills and they’d squash a few and play ‘Ant Hospital’ (the ants always died). She had an imaginary friend, a lion named Ralph, and she said once, “Ralph likes me best but he’d kill and eat anyone who hurt you, too.”

When their dad went for Mickey, Mandy jumped in his way. When he went for Mandy, Mickey grabbed at his hands until Terry hit him instead.

A week before their mom died in the hospital, she called Mickey in to talk to her one last time and what she said to him was, “You take care of yourself, okay, Mick? And take care of Mandy, too.”

So now he says to Ian, “All right, all right, I’ll talk to her. It won’t do any fucking good, but I’ll do it.”

Ian gives him one of his best, classic Ian-smiles, but then starts racing around the kitchen because even though he’s making two different kinds of biscotti, it also seems like a good idea to start peeling potatoes. Mickey watches him worriedly.

And Mickey doesn’t get a chance to talk to Mandy because she disappears for a few days and at the same time Ian totally falls apart.


	7. Chapter 7

There was a time when Ian promised himself he would never use drugs anymore. That he would make sure to get at least six hours of sleep each night. All of this fell away. First to go was the sleep. If he could manage one or two hours a night it began to be enough. Second was the drugs. He started taking anything anyone offered him at the Club. Sometimes he felt he needed it. Sometimes he merely wanted to be polite. And sometimes he had already grabbed a pill and swallowed it before he thought, “Oh, hey, maybe I shouldn’t have done that.” Each night felt like this. In spite of his thoughts racing away, his body was always one step ahead of his brain. 

Sometimes this worried him, but mostly it seemed okay. He was okay enough. If one night tilted out of control, he could always fix it tomorrow. He would stop doing drugs tomorrow. He would sleep tomorrow. He would be faithful to Mickey tomorrow. No one else appeared to notice there was a problem, so maybe there wasn’t one? Didn’t everyone go nuts now and then?

And it was almost…exhilarating…the way his mind worked now. Everything was more beautiful--the whole world and all the people in it. He could think about a million things at once. He didn’t need to sleep and he could cook and write and draw all night long. Other people needed 8 hours a night. Other people did only one thing at a time. Ian could do a million things. He had a sort of new super power.

But one night he leaves for work and on the train ride north he stares out the window and begins to realize he isn’t in control of his thoughts. It starts because he’s watching all the familiar buildings pass by and then he’s thinking of every time he’s ever ridden this train before. Every single time. Being 11 and playing hooky with Lip, riding the train downtown to sneak into a movie. Going with Monica to his first gay bar. Going with Frank somewhere when he was about eight because Frank needed a kid for a scheme he was running but half-way through the ride Frank passed out on the train car floor. 

And then, flickering through his brain are all the times he rode to work during the past few months, and it’s like he can remember every single time and every single person he saw on the train. And it’s not just the overall memories, but the details. The argyle sweater a sixty-year-old man wore. The chocolate chip cookies a young kid ate. Like he’s reliving the moments and they’re flying by faster and faster in his brain and he can’t make them stop. They’re moving ten times more quickly than the buildings and the trees outside as train glides past them.

He doesn’t know what to do. 

He turns away from the window and glances at the other passengers. But this is a mistake because he starts imagining things about them. Stories. Like he can see their entire lives and he feels that he knows them. He’s not just imagining, he knows. There’s a part of him that says, “You can’t know, you’re not psychic,” but he _knows_. There’s a Hispanic woman who is nearly bald. She has a few wisps of hair left that she’s combed back in a pathetic attempt at a ponytail. Ian knows that she lives alone and works at Food 4 Less and she lost her husband to cancer ten years ago and gave up caring about anything ever since.

There’s a homeless man with a Bulls cap on his head sitting across the aisle. He keeps talking to himself--no, he’s talking to every other passenger on this train--and he’s saying, “You’re never too old to learn, you’re never too old to learn, don’t forget you’re never too old to learn,” and Ian knows that this man went crazy years ago when he was just 18. He left home but he has a brother that loves him and who still looks for him nearly every day. Call your brother, Ian wants to tell him. But then Ian realizes that he’s as crazy as this man. There’s nothing that separates him from Ian except that Ian’s craziness exists in his head where only he can hear it. If he spoke the craziness aloud, then they’d be the same.

He has to get to work. That’s the one thing he’s sure of. If he can get to the Fairy Tail then everything will be okay. Everything is better at work. There are customers there who look at him like he’s a Greek god. They see nothing wrong with him--no weakness or fault. And they give him drugs--whatever he wants, anything, anything--and sometimes they ask him if he wants a hand job or a blow job in the back room and whatever’s going wrong in his mind disappears for hours in a fizzy haze of drugs and sex.

He manages to exit the train at the right stop. He walks to the Club. It’s late May now and still daylight--it will be daylight for a while. The other people on the street rush by but he starts to feel like they’re noticing him. Like they can sense there’s something wrong with him. He feels their eyes on him. He snaps at one middle-aged woman, “Take a fucking picture, it’ll last longer!” and she jumps back, startled. He rushes past. He gets to the Club. There’s a dressing room in the back where the dancers change. He knows some of the guys, but not all of them because there’s so much turnover here. One of the few he does know, Christopher, yells to him, “Hey, Curtis!” and Ian manages to blurt out a “Hey,” and then drops his bag at his mirror station.

The other guys in the room are talking and laughing. Preparing themselves to be ogled for hours--some get pumped before going out to dance and others get nervous. Ian used to be nervous but lately he’s loved it--the anticipation before leaving to be adored.

Now he stares at himself in the mirror and the face he sees is paler than usual and terrified. There’s a sheen of clammy sweat covering his skin. He says to Christopher, “You got anything? I need something for my nerves tonight,” and Christopher asks a few of the others and he manages to collect Vicodin and a Dasani bottle that’s quarter-filled with gin and water. Ian takes it all. Later some guy offers him a line of coke and he takes that, too. He doesn’t care what it is or what it does, whether it wires you up or calms you down, whatever he’s offered he takes. 

It’s time to go now and when he reaches the floor he begins to feel like maybe he’ll be all right. The room and all the men in it seem very far away. His thoughts are still racing but not as badly. He focuses on the music and dances.

He doesn’t know how long he dances. Maybe ten minutes, maybe three hours. The customers all started to run together a long time ago. He can’t tell the difference anymore and the ones that ask, “Do you remember me? I came in here last night? I slipped you a c-note?” he doesn’t recognize. One guy tells Ian that he gave him a blow job five days ago in this very club and Ian smiles, “Okay, sure,” because at this point it’s more than likely that it happened. He dimly knows that this is messed up, fucking guys and actually preferring not to remember them, but he doesn’t dwell on that thought for long.

Eventually a bouncer yells, “Curtis! Take your break, you’ve been dancing for four hours. Go get some water.” There’s nothing worse than a dancer who drops dead in a faint--it’s not sexy at all. So Ian nods and goes back to the dressing room. 

There’s one other guy in there, also on his break. Ian doesn’t recognize him but he has red hair, too. He smiles at Ian and says, “This is my first night.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Ian paces around the room. He’s looking for something but he can’t remember what.

“Yeah. It’s weird. It’s kind of nice but scary at the same time? All those strangers staring at you.”

“Yeah, weird,” Ian isn’t listening. 

“Are you all right? Can I help you find something?”

“I’m fine,” he says because he does need to find something but he still doesn’t know what it is.

“Are you sure? What’s your name? Mine’s Daniel. Well, actually, it’s Curtis but you know we have to do the whole fake name thing here.”

Ian stops and stares at him, “Curtis?” he asks. The other man nods. “Your real name’s not really Curtis, is it?”

“Yeah, why--is that your real name, too?”

“No.”

But Ian is scrutinizing him now and what he realizes is that he can’t tell if Curtis is real or not. Like, he seems real. He looks real, but Ian is beginning to think that maybe he’s not. 

He says to Curtis, “Please don’t be offended but I’m not sure you exist.”

Curtis laughs, “Um, what?”

“I think maybe I’m imagining you.”

“Are you okay?”

And Ian knows finally, with absolute certainty, that he is not okay. This is the thought he’s been avoiding for weeks. For months. With all these thoughts racing through his mind he managed to bury this one, but here it is. He is definitely not okay. And it now seems to be the only thing he knows. Curtis stands up and slowly walks towards him like he’s worried Ian is going to start raving madly. Actually, Ian is a little afraid that might happen, too. 

He blurts, “I need to use the bathroom,” and runs out of the room. He doesn’t go to the regular men’s room, but to the small handicapped one. It only has one toilet and you can lock the door and be alone. As he turns the bolt he feels better. He’ll just stay here until his mind stops racing. He sits on the floor in the corner. He tries to take deep long breaths. In and out. The fluorescent light hurts his eyes so he turns the switch off and sits in the dark. The room smells faintly of ammonia. He starts to think of Mickey and he begins to cry. Now the memories of every random guy who sucked him off or gave him a hand job in the past few weeks come rushing back. He makes himself remember each and every one, as best he can, as punishment. 

“Hey, Curtis?” There are people outside now. They keep asking him if he’s all right and he yells, “I’m fine!” but he doesn’t open the door and they don’t leave. They seem to multiply and he wonders how many people are out there--maybe it’s the whole club. The door knob jiggles and then the door slams open. It’s only three people, the manager, Ted, a bouncer named Lawrence, and the other Curtis. Ian supposes that he didn’t imagine Curtis after all. He’s both relieved that Curtis is real, but embarrassed that this real person will now remember the conversation they had. 

They ask him what the hell he was doing in here and Ian says he has food poisoning. They don’t believe him, but they take him to Ted’s office. There’s a couch inside and he lies down. They ask him who they should call to come take him home. He gives them Mickey’s number although he’s terrified of seeing Mickey right now. There’s too much guilt and pain in his heart. And his head stopped working a long time ago.

After a while Mickey is there, actually there in Ted’s office. He’s speaking angrily with Ted about something and then he’s touching Ian gently on the arm and saying, “Hey, tough guy, you wanna go home? I got a cab outside.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I don’t need to leave; I’ll be all right in a minute.”

Mickey sighs and sits next to him on the couch, placing his hand lightly on Ian’s forehead.

“Your boss is outside and he’s not happy. I told him you had the flu or some shit, but if you don’t want to lose your job permanently we need to get outta here now.”

“I don’t think I can stand up, Mick,” and then he starts to cry. He’s sobbing on Ted’s couch. Mickey kind of pulls him up so that he’s sitting and holds him for a while. Eventually Mickey says, “I can carry you, but it’s going to look pretty weird to everyone here. Are you sure you can’t walk out?”

And Ian manages to stand up and he leans on Mickey and they walk outside to the taxi. In the cab ride home, Ian slumps in the corner and starts confessing about all the men he’s done in the past few weeks. He can’t stop talking. Mickey keeps interrupting him to say, “Shut up, Ian, just shut the fuck up. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does. I have to tell you because I betrayed you and I’m so sorry and I’m so stupid--“

“ _Please_ shut up. It’s okay.”

But Ian can’t shut up. Eventually Mickey leans back in his seat and closes his eyes while Ian babbles about pathetic hand jobs in the Fairy Tail bathroom. The cab driver glances at Ian in the rear view mirror but luckily he doesn’t say anything. When they get home, Mickey pays the driver and pretty much carries Ian to their bed. Ian lays down on the covers--still in his gold lamé shorts from the Club and he thinks how much better everyone’s lives would be if he were dead. Mickey undresses him, covers him with a blanket, and says, “It’ll be okay, Ian. Get some rest. I’m here if you need anything.”

And even though he starts to cry again, amazingly he does feel tired. He hasn’t felt tired in so long but now it’s like there’s a tiredness that has seeped into his bones and into his mind. Even his soul feels tired. What a stupid thought. And that’s the last thing he thinks before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know--Ian was cheating on Mickey! Not good. I actually debated a lot about whether or not he would cheat. Ultimately I decided that Ian, both as a symptom of his bipolar disorder and because he’s a Gallagher and Gallaghers sometimes turn to destructive sex when they’re having a crisis, that he would probably have some meaningless encounters during a time of mania and heavy drug use. I don’t think this reflects on his feelings for Mickey.


	8. An Interlude with Mandy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet more notes! I know I put tags for physical abuse/abusive relationships on this entire work, but I wanted to add something else for this chapter. This chapter is told from Mandy’s point of view and there’s a scene where Kenyatta hits her. It was upsetting to write, so I understand if anyone might not want to read it. HOWEVER, by the end of this chapter a few good things also happen for Mandy because I wasn’t about to leave her with Kenyatta forever (and the show better get her away from him next season, too).
> 
> I also want to say that since this chapter is told in close third person from Mandy’s POV there is some unhealthy thinking in it about abusive relationships--this is strictly intended to show Mandy’s thought processes.

She was staying with Kenyatta at his sister Cora’s apartment. She’d been there for about two weeks when she started getting texts from Mickey. Ones that said, 

\--Come over. Ian’s bad again.

Or

\--Whre the fuck r u? Stop by the house Ian needs u.

And

\--Are u alright? Is asshole beating u agin?!

And, eventually,

\--Fucking hell Mandy answer yr godamn phone!

She ignored them. One day, about a week after Mickey’s first text, she was working at the Colonial Diner (she had two different waitressing jobs now and made decent money but was always tired), dealing with a dickwad table--two straight guys on a business lunch wearing expensive suits and one of them was trying to impress the other with how much he could be an ass to the waitress. The other one hardly said a word and kept playing with his phone.

“This sandwich was listed under the menu’s “melts” section but the cheese isn’t melted?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the turkey sandwich never has melted cheese unless you specify you want it that way.”

“Then why is it under the melts section?”

“I don’t know. A mistake I guess?”

“You guess?”

“I can take it back and have the cheese melted.”

“So what does that mean? You’re just going to nuke it in the microwave?”

“That’s exactly what that means.”

“Well, that’ll taste like crap.”

“It’ll taste like a sandwich that’s been microwaved.”

“Forget it. I’ll eat it this way.”

“I could have them make you a new sandwich--“

“That’ll take forever. Just forget it. You should’ve asked me when I ordered if I wanted the cheese melted or not. But forget it. It’s not a big deal.”

“Clearly,” she said before she could help herself. He shot her a look and just then she heard the bells over the main entrance jingle and she caught site of her brother entering the diner and barreling towards her purposefully.

“Shit,” she said.

“Excuse me?” the man at the table said.

Mickey reached her and demanded, “So what’s the deal, Mandy? You forget how to work your phone?”

She growled at him, “I’m at work, asshole.”

“Yeah, well, I came by here cause I keep texting your cell and leaving messages at that prick’s sister’s place and you never fucking answer or call me back.”

The two men at the table were now staring at her and Mickey and smiling those small mocking smiles people get when strangers are making a scene. She turned away from Mickey and said, “Well, if you two gentlemen don’t need anything else?” and then left before they could tell her if they did. Mickey followed her. She walked quickly into the kitchen, yelled at Marco, “I’m taking my break!” and slammed open the door to the parking lot. It was a grey day but luckily there was no rain. She and Mickey stood there glaring at each other amid the smells of rancid cheese and meat wafting from the dumpsters.

“Well?” Mickey asked.

“Well, what?”

“What the fuck’s going on? Why haven’t you been round to see Ian? Is dickface not letting you come over anymore or what?”

“Kenyatta doesn’t order me around. He’s not like that.”

“Oh, no, of course not--he smashes your face in every so often--but he’s a perfect gentleman in every other way, right? Treats you like a fucking queen?”

“Fuck you.”

Mickey sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Now that she got a good look at him, he looked like hell. He had circles under his eyes and he wore that pinched expression he got when his face full of worry. She hated to see him like this. 

“Ian’s not doing so good, okay?” Mickey said tiredly, “It’s like it was before. He doesn’t leave the bed. He doesn’t do anything but lay there and cry sometimes.”

Every time Ian got bad or erratic, Mandy felt this panic deep inside her. Like even now, just hearing that Ian fell apart--it made her feel like someone’s fist was squeezing her heart until it was a bloody mess. But all she said was, “Sorry.”

“It’d be good if you came by. Sat with him. Talked to him or whatever the fuck.”

“What does he need me for? He’s got you.”

“He sure as shit needs you, you’re his friend.”

“The last five conversations I’ve had with him were arguments--I’m pretty sure I’d just upset him if I came over.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, and maybe I’m not feeling up to another fight about Kenyatta myself, so--”

“Trust me, Ian’s not gonna argue with you. He barely has the energy to speak, let alone argue.”

“I don’t want to come over.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to see him!” she wished that Mickey could understand. Just understand without her having to argue--without her having to say the words aloud. She couldn’t see Ian because she was too worried about him. Sometimes she felt Ian heading towards a permanent blackness. And she didn’t want to watch that. She couldn’t.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you? Don’t you care about him?” Mickey demanded.

“What the fuck about me? Does anyone ever give a shit about me? What I need? Do you ever even fucking care?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You’re the one who moved out to be with lamedick--who hits you by the way--so that’s apparently what you fucking need, right? You left. Everything was fine and then you left. Ian’s fucking losing it and you don’t come back? Not even to visit? And now you’re whining like _we_ abandoned _you_? Come the fuck on!”

She was so angry. She put her hands on Mickey’s chest and shoved him hard. He stumbled back as she shouted, “Don’t fucking come here again. Don’t text me. Don’t fucking say another word to me you fucking piece of shit!” And she ran back in to the restaurant slamming the door behind her. She half expected to hear Mickey come barging in to follow her and yell more about Ian, but he didn’t. The door stayed closed. She was partly relieved, partly disappointed. She almost wanted him to follow her--to yell at her--to do something anything. It was always easier to fight than it was to be scared.

Her heart was racing but she forced herself to take a few breaths and then went back out to the front. She kept thinking about Ian. She just couldn’t deal with him when he was sick. She couldn’t. If he got better…when he got better, she’d go see him. Apologize. She felt guilty as shit, but so what? With her thoughts on Ian, she kept messing up orders. It was a miserable day and she made shit for tips.

After work she rode the bus home. It was about 7 o’clock. She and Kenyatta were staying at his sister Cora’s apartment near the University of Chicago. They’d been there for a few weeks now. Cora was a nurse in the cancer ward at the U of C Medical Center. She was Kenyatta’s half-sister--they had the same mother--and she was about fifteen years older than him. Since Cora worked the night shift, when Mandy came home she was getting ready to go to work. The TV was on (tuned, as always, to Oprah’s OWN Network) and Cora was running from room to room, getting dressed in her scrubs and putting her dinner together in some Tupperware containers.

“Hey, Mandy!” Cora shouted as she ran past carrying a thermos of what smelled like chicken noodle soup.

“Hey.” Weirdly, Mandy liked Cora, and even weirder than that Cora seemed to like her, too. Usually the families of the boys Mandy dated hated her and thought she was trash--and so she quickly hated them back. Cora had started out hostile when she and Kenyatta first started crashing at her place, but after an argument Cora had with Kenyatta over money (he wasn’t working right now and had nothing to contribute) Mandy gave her a hundred dollars the next day for food. They were in the kitchen and Cora had just gotten home from her 12 hour shift. It was 9 AM. She was sitting at the kitchen table with her eyes glazed over from tiredness when Mandy came in and put the money down on the table.

“What’s this?”

“You know, for groceries and shit.”

Cora lifted her eyebrows in surprise but only said, “Thanks.”

After that Cora sometimes asked Mandy about her day and they talked a little. Cora would tell Mandy about her patients and how sad some of them made her, while others infuriated her, “I know they’re suffering, Mandy, but god help me sometimes I want to dump a bedpan over their heads!” Mostly she seemed to have a lot of compassion for them. Mandy never told Cora this, but she reminded Mandy of the nurses who took care of her mom a long time ago. Tough but also kind. Until she had met those nurses, she hadn’t known that any stranger could be kind. 

Now Mandy took a seat on the sofa and put her feet up on the coffee table. She lit a cigarette. On the TV was _Iyanla: Fix My Life_. Mandy had watched this show half a dozen times with Cora. It was a reality show where this woman, Iyanla, tried to help people with their fucked up lives and familes. This was an episode Mandy hadn’t seen before, though. It was about a group of siblings who were confronting their dad--he’d been a drug addict for their entire childhoods and had spent most of the time in prison. Mandy didn’t know what the fuck these kids were complaining about. First, they had an awesome grandmother who had taken care of them their entire lives. Secondly, even though the dad was an addict he seemed like a nice person. He never knocked them around or anything.

The show was ending with the usual tears and Iyanla’s positive bullshit when Cora came out of her bedroom finally ready to leave for work. She gestured to Mandy’s cigarette, “You know those things will kill you, don’t you?” and then she paused in the living room to watch the last few moments of the episode. The dad was pledging to stay clean from now on and he got a job in a barber shop. His kids wanted to believe in him and forgive him but they couldn’t really--not yet. The credits rolled.

“Oh, that was sad, wasn’t it? It’s like almost everyone has a story that could break your heart.”

If Mandy didn’t like Cora so much she would’ve laughed at that sappy statement but instead she said, “Hmm,” non-committedly. 

“Well, I should get going--see you later, Mands.” 

“Later. Have a good night at work.”

Mandy sat on the couch, too tired to move as one _Iyanla_ episode turned into another. She had never seen this one before, either. It was about a woman and her abusive husband. They’d get into arguments and he’d hit her or choke her. They had three small kids. Iyanla sent the husband away to some therapy program for abusive shitheads and then spent the rest of the episode talking, talking, talking to the wife. Trying to get her to leave the man, to wise up, or whatever. Iyanla kept asking her why she slept with a man who also hit her--how she could let the man who hurt her also be the one she loved. The woman says it’s because she doesn’t want her kids to grow up without a father. And she doesn’t think anyone else will ever love her.

Mandy wants this woman to tell Iyanla the truth. That lots of guys hit you--like half the men Mandy has ever met do this--and that’s just the way it is. And some people don’t get the brass ring in life--some people get dirt shoved in their faces and they have to find a way to breathe through it day in and day out. Year in and year out. What would Iyanla’s advice be for Mandy, for instance? Go where? Do what? Break up with Kenyatta? And then six months later find some other piece of shit who hit her? Or cheated on her? Or thought she wasn’t good enough for him but he’d screw her anyway? Or maybe she should choose to be alone--forever?

She turned the channel before the episode ended and watched a stupid movie with Steve Martin for a while. Around ten o’clock she was in the kitchen heating up a can of SpaghettiOs when Kenyatta came home. He was totally shitfaced and he didn’t say hello but started singing. 

“Thank you, for let-ting me be myself…again!”

He picked her up and danced her around the kitchen. She laughed a little but said, “C’mon, put me down.”

He let her go abruptly and she stumbled. He said, “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she answered and stirred her SpaghettiOs.

“You know how that’s really spelled?”

“What?”

“’Thank you for letting me be myself again’--the song title--d’you know how it’s really spelled?”

“No?”

“It’s all fucked up--Sly spelled it “mice” and “elf” it’s hilarious.”

She doesn’t care about the spelling of the song. She doesn’t care about anything. Here was another thing she could’ve told Iyanla about abusive boyfriends--or abusive fathers for that matter--sometimes you want them to hit you to get it over with. Like at that moment, with Kenyatta being all drunk and smiling--it was nice but there was an edge of danger underneath it. Like he could turn sour in a flash--so she wanted him to turn sour so the jumpy feeling of waiting for the first punch would disappear. Pain is always better than waiting for it. She’d rather be in the ring than nervously prepping for a fight.

So she said as bitterly as she could, “I don’t fucking care how the song is spelled.”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You come home at 10 o’clock, drunk off your ass, and you want to know what my problem is?”

He was getting mad, but not mad enough, so she yelled, “You’re a fucking waste of space--you don’t have a job--your sister and I bring home all the money--“ 

And there it was. One hit and then another. A one two punch across her face. And then another right to her gut which crumpled her to the floor. She tasted the blood in her mouth and found it hard to breathe for a moment. Kenyatta stared at her on the floor and shook his head. He said, “Fuck you, you fucking bitch,” and stomped out of the apartment. 

She lay on the floor until she remembered the SpaghettiOs might burn and she crawled over to the stove and turned the burner off. She wasn’t hungry anymore. She wondered how bad her face looked. 

She dragged herself off the floor. She poured the SpaghettiOs into a Tupperware container, placed it in the fridge, and hobbled to the bathroom to stare at herself in the mirror. It was bad--but not as bad as some she’d had. She washed the blood off her face, put Bactine and a Band-Aid on a cut running down her right cheek, and returned to the kitchen to grab a package of frozen peas to rest on her left eye. She entered Cora’s guest room where they’d been staying and lay down on the bed with the peas on her face. She fell asleep like that in her clothes, with the dripping peas, with the light on. 

When she wakes up it’s morning and the peas are mush. She throws them out. It’s 7 AM--Kenyatta never came back and Cora’s not due home until after 8:30. Mandy takes a shower and then spends an hour fixing her face to hide the beating. She’s not sure what Cora knows about Kenyatta, but somehow Mandy wants to keep this from her. Cora might blame her for it.

She’s done a good job on her face, so when Cora comes home Mandy decides to go to the kitchen to say hello. Cora likes to sit at the kitchen table after her night shift. She sometimes talks to Mandy or does a crossword puzzle. She calls this her “decompression time” because she can’t fall asleep right away and needs an hour to chill out.

“Hey, how was work?” Mandy asks her as she enters the kitchen. Cora looks up from a crossword puzzle and sort of gives her a look. Mandy feels self-conscious about her face but when Cora eventually says, “Work was all right,” Mandy’s relieved. The look probably meant nothing. She pours herself a cup of coffee and sits across from Cora.

“So how’s Mr. Adelman?” Mandy asks. He’s one of Cora’s patients--pancreatic cancer--an elderly man who has a big crush on Cora. He gives her flowers and says romantic things to her all the time.

“Oh, not so good,” she says sadly, “He didn’t even have the strength to kiss my hand last night.”

“I’m sorry.”

Neither of them says anything for a while. It’s an okay silence--it’s nice. But then Cora breaks it to ask, “So Mandy, you got any family?”

Mandy thinks about her million uncles. Her million cousins. Her several brothers. Her father. Christ, does she have family. Way, way too much family. But she answers by only saying, “I’ve got a brother.”

“Is he good to you?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Would he help you if you were in trouble?”

“Yeah,” Mandy begins to fear where this conversation is heading, “He would.”

Cora nods and then returns to her crossword. After a moment she looks up again--right into Mandy’s eyes.

“You know, I love my baby brother but he’s got some problems. You know that, right?”

Mandy doesn’t know what to say.

“And I forgive him for these problems and I let him stay with me when he needs a place for two reasons. One is that he’s never taken his problems out on me. And two, is that his daddy was a really mean man. Real mean. And Kenyatta bore the brunt of it. That’s not an excuse--but I remember him when he was just a little boy and…well…I have some experience with mean fathers myself. I think maybe you do, too.”

Mandy turns away--stares at the sink--at the tiles--at anything but Cora’s eyes.

“It might be a good idea if you left--if maybe you went to stay with that brother of yours for a while. And I’m not saying this because I don’t like having you here. I mean, you could stay here as long as you like. I’m saying this because, well…” she trailed off and then began again. 

“Mandy, look at me. Take a good hard look.” Mandy wills her eyes over to Cora’s face. Cora is smiling sadly at her and Mandy almost can’t stand the sympathy in her eyes, “I seem like someone who’s got her shit together, right? Got my own apartment. Got a good job, right?” Mandy nods. “Well, let me tell you that I spent years, years, living like a natural disaster. Living like a hurricane swept in and destroyed my life every other week. I was in and out of shelters. I tried to kill myself once. And a few guys tried to kill me, too. I spent more time in the hospital then _before_ I was a nurse, than I do now because I was always hurt. It was ridiculous. It was foolish. It was a waste. And you’re young. You’re smart. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you--just go think about things, okay? Get away from this situation and just be. Just think. Please.”

Mandy starts to speak and she hates the shakiness she can hear in her voice, “Cora, I don’t _need_ to think about anything. You’re wrong about me and Kenyatta. There’s nothing going on that I can’t handle. And I’m not going to end up in the fucking hospital. I’m fine.”

“You think being brave means standing up to danger. Like you’re on the train tracks and a train’s heading right towards you. And you think you’re a chicken if you don’t stand up to the train--but Mandy, that’s stupid. The train’s going to mow you down. Get off the fucking tracks.”

Mandy is now starting to get mad, “Cora, what the hell are you talking about? Kenyatta is my boyfriend. He’s not a fucking train.”

“Mandy,” Cora sighs and rubs her eyes, “What I’m trying to say is that sometimes the bravest thing--or the hardest thing--is to run away and save yourself. To know that you’re worth saving.”

Mandy stands up and says, “I’ve got to get to work.” 

Cora nods sadly, “Well, if you ever want to talk…” and Mandy walks away.

On the bus going to work she feels incredibly angry. She’s mad at Cora for thinking she needs advice. This stupid woman who barely knows her--what the fuck does she know? 

At work, throughout the day, Mandy snaps at the customers and prays her make-up is holding so they can’t see the bruises underneath her thick layer of Maybelline. During her lunch break she gets a text from Ian which surprises her. It says simply, “I’m sorry.” This worries her--sorry for what? But she puts it out of her mind and doesn’t reply. 

She’s working at the Chess Pie Diner today. It’s 20 blocks south of the Colonial so at 2 PM she’s surprised to see that same douchebag in the nice suit who complained about his turkey sandwich at the Colonial yesterday. He’s alone. He’s startled to see her, too because when she gets to his table and asks him abruptly, “What’ll you have?” he glances up from his menu and laughs. 

“You again! Do you work at every diner in the tri-state area?”

“Ha ha. No, just two. The Colonial and this one. What’ll you have?”

“You’ve done something different to your hair today. I like it.”

And she can’t even believe that this douchebag who was such a pain in the ass yesterday is actually trying to flirt with her. Like he seriously thinks if’s he throws her a few complements she’ll be all over his dick.

“Great. Thanks. Now, WHAT. WILL. YOU. HAVE.”

“Uh, a cherry coke and a French dip.”

“Coming right up.” She spins around and gets as far away from his table as quickly as possible. 

Later when she’s setting down his food he says, “I have a proposition for you. Something I think you’ll be good at.”

“Oh, what could it be? I’m all aflutter.” She’s ready to dump his coke all over his fancy suit as soon as he says anything remotely sexual. She doesn’t even fucking care if she loses her job over it.

He laughs and says, “See? That sass right there. You ever hear of Jack McGinty’s?”

Mandy is puzzled. This is not the question she expected him to ask. “That fake 50s diner on the North side--where all the tourists go?”

“That’s the one. I work for the company that owns it and sometimes I go around to other diners and try to find waitresses that would work well at McGinty’s. It’s kind of a special skill set, you know? And I think you’d be perfect.”

Suddenly, this guy makes sense to her. Yesterday he was _trying_ to be a pain in the ass to see what she’d do. She’s never been to Jack McGinty’s but it’s legendary for having the wait staff be all surly and shit to the customers. That’s actually, like, the attraction of the place. The tourists eat it up because eating there and being crapped on by the waitresses is like having Don Rickles insult you during one of his shows.

“Why would I want to work there?”

“Well, we pay pretty well. 12 dollars an hour--before tips--and the tips are pretty good because people love the whole ‘grumpy for your entertainment vibe.’ Plus, the burgers are really overpriced.”

“You think I’d be good at a place like that?”

“C’mon--you’d be perfect. You’re quick on your feet. You’re grumpy but not too grumpy. The trick is to be outwardly horrible while being inwardly nice deep down. People can tell whether you actually mean the insults. And when you don’t, then it’s just funny and no one feels bad. I think that’s you exactly.”

She stares at him. She wasn’t expecting this. She still doesn’t really know if it’s a trick or not--if he’s just saying all this to get under her skirt.

“Well, anyway here’s my card, my name is Miles. Call that number tomorrow if you’re interested and we can set up an interview at the restaurant.”

She takes the card and pockets it, “Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem. And thank you for the sandwich.” And he grins and picks up his French dip.

The rest of the day, despite her face aching like hell, she feels almost happy. Happy and sad. Like even if this job doesn’t happen, this guy Miles, this stranger, thought she’d be good at something. Why does this make her so happy? And why does it make her so sad?

On the bus ride home she thinks and thinks and thinks. About what Cora said to her this morning. About her mom. About her dad. About how she runs to Kenyatta whenever she’s worried about Ian because it feels safer to be beaten than it does to worry about losing someone she loves. She thinks about how she believes she deserves to be hit. She _knows_ this is messed up. But she can’t stop feeling this way. It’s not even so much that she deserves it; it’s more like this is what men do to her. They hit her. Or they call her garbage. Or they sleep with her and then call her a slut. Only two guys have ever treated her like she was worth anything. Mickey and Ian. (Well, maybe Lip sometimes, too.) When someone like Miles, a stranger, is nice to her without wanting to fuck her it feels bizarre--like she doesn’t know what to do with it. It doesn’t fit the order of her universe. It makes her want to cry. Kenyatta can punch her in the face and she feels normal. But god forbid someone offers her a job--then she wants to cry.

She thinks about how messed up she is. So, so messed up. If Cora were here Mandy would explain to her that she’s been flattened like a pancake by that fucking train so many times that it now seems ordinary. She doesn’t know how it would feel to run off the tracks and escape. But she decides she wants to try. 

When she reaches Cora’s apartment no one is home. She packs her stuff (it’s not that much) into her backpack and duffle bag. She leaves Cora a note. It says, 

Dear Cora,

I never told you but my mom died of cancer when I was seven and she had a few nurses who remind me of you. There was one, Cindy, who always asked me how I was doing. Every time me and my brother visited my mom she’d ask me that. And she asked me liked she really cared and like my answer really mattered to her. One time I was crying and she gave me a hug. I’ve always remembered her. I’ll remember you, too.

\--Mandy

She places the note in Cora’s crossword puzzle book where she knows Cora will see it and Kenyatta won’t. 

Mandy leaves Cora’s apartment and heads home. When she opens the door she sees Ian sitting listlessly on the couch watching TV while Nikka and Svetlana stand in the kitchen, passing Yevgeny back and forth and jabbering in Russian.

“Hey,” Mandy says to all of them. Nikka waves to her, and Svetlana nods, and then they go back to their discussion. Ian says nothing. She drops her bags on the floor and sits next to him. He’s watching an old rerun of _WKRP in Cincinnati_. 

“So you’re depressed again, huh?” she asks him.

He turns to her and kind of half-smiles. Like he just noticed she was in the room.

“I’m all right,” he says but his voice is croaky like he hasn’t been using it lately. She picks up his right arm and places it round her shoulders and leans against him. He lets her do this and doesn’t pull away. She says, “I left Kenyatta today. For good.”

“You said that before.”

“I know, but you’ll have to trust me on this one. I left him today for good.”

“Okay. I’m glad. _Really_ glad,” and he gives her shoulder a squeeze, “So are you gonna stick around here now? With us?”

“Yeah, I’m back. You’ll never get rid of me.”

He actually grins at that and kisses her cheek, “Never? That doesn’t sound so bad. That actually sounds pretty okay.”

She laughs. She starts to feel tears in her eyes and she wipes them away quickly. She’s ashamed of her tears, but Ian doesn’t say anything, he simply tightens his arm around her. They watch TV.

An hour later Mickey comes home and he sees Mandy’s bags on the floor, and Ian and Mandy sitting on the couch watching _Golden Girls_. He says, “Hello, douchebags.”

“Assface,” Mandy replies. 

Mickey walks past them to go into his room, but as he passes by he says casually, “Glad to have you back home, Mands,” and he’s gone before she can say anything in reply. She’s too surprised, actually, to say anything. She can’t remember the last time Mickey said he was glad to have her around, but she feels herself smiling. She’s glad to be home, too.


	9. Chapter 9

In the days after Ian imploded at the Fairy Tail Mickey has time to think. Too much time. Ian’s in bed again, unable to do more than stumble to the bathroom occasionally. Mickey practically has to force feed him water and a granola bar every so often to keep him alive. His eyes are glassy and distant--like pain is fogging up his vision and he can’t see the world too clearly. 

So Mickey lies on the bed next to Ian. Wrapping his arms around him at night even though Ian never reaches for him but instead burrows into the sheets and whispers, “I’m sorry, Mick,” which panics Mickey and makes him want to fly his fist right through a wall. But he doesn’t. He does nothing. He can’t figure out what to do besides hang around in case Ian needs anything.

He sometimes lies next to Ian during the day, too. Listening to his soft breaths and staring at the dust motes dancing in the sun. His thoughts revolve in an endless, pathetic loop. Will Ian be okay? Will he get worse? Are the good moments enough to make up for the bad? Can Ian keep getting better after times like these? Or will there eventually come a day when there is no better? 

Sometimes, when Mickey lies next to Ian he tells him things. He reads the sports page out loud and makes fun of how bad the Cubs are doing this year. He reads the front page and calls Rahm Emanuel a dick. A part of him wishes he could tell Ian that he loves him instead of reading the stupid paper. He thinks if he were different--a better boyfriend or whatever the shit--that maybe Ian would be able to get out of bed. If he could tell Ian all the crap he feels. 

Before Ian crashed into his life, Mickey never wanted love. Not bullshit romantic love, anyway. Growing up, after his mom died his father slept with prostitutes and had occasional “girlfriends” who were usually former strippers--and current alcoholics or drug addicts. They seemed happy to put up with Terry’s beatings and drunken insults if it meant Terry gave them food, shelter, and cash. They always left eventually. Sometimes Terry kicked them out and sometimes they found someone else to provide food and abuse. Mickey despised them. Now and again one of these women tried to butter him up him by being phony nice and praising his dad. “Your dad is so great!” they’d say, “Such a good man underneath it all,” and Mickey wondered who in the hell they thought they were talking about. And sometimes they’d say, “Mickey, I really want to get to know you, too, because, well…I love your father and maybe someday I’ll be your stepmom…” And then he’d burst out laughing. 

For these women love meant--Christ, he didn’t even know. It meant being kicked in the stomach and then fucking smiling at the person who kicked you. It meant bullshit. It meant pain.

Unlike these women, and seemingly the rest of the world, no Milkovich ever came close to mentioning _love_. Sure, yeah, it was assumed you’d die for anyone in the family but that was because of…loyalty. Honor. Family pride or some crap like that. Of course Mickey’s father never mentioned it. The thought of Terry saying ‘I love you’ or “love ya, Mick” wasn’t just laughable, it was inconceivable. His dad never said it and Mickey never ever expected him to, but when she was alive Mickey’s mom didn’t, either.

Mickey sometimes thought she might love him anyway because she never yelled at him unless he was being a shit and even then she only shouted stuff like, “Mickey quit throwing your sister’s stuffed gorilla out the fucking car window!” She never hit him, never made fun of him, never called him names like his dad did, stuff like ‘stupid fucking pussy’ or ‘goddamn waste of space.”

When he was very young he used to wish his mom would say the words ‘I love you.’ He never asked her because even as a five year-old, even before love was a joke, it felt too pathetic to ask “Do you love me?” and a part of him was scared that if she said yes, it might be a lie. Maybe nobody loved anybody. Maybe the best you could hope for was kindness.

So the closest she ever came to saying she loved him was sometimes she’d hug him, or there was this one time when he was six and he had a nightmare. He was always having nightmares as a kid. Nothing specific but he’d be somewhere in his dream: in his house, at the community pool, on the street, and suddenly a sense of complete, all-encompassing terror would surround him. Then he’d wake up and nothing felt safe. When his dad was gone (in jail or on a job) he’d run to his mom’s room and he’d shake her arm until she woke up and said, “Hey, Mick, did ya have a bad dream?” and she’d let him crowd into her bed and he’d feel safer.

But this one time he made the mistake of having a nightmare when his dad was home. In his sleepiness he forgot that Terry had been released that day, so when he shook his mom awake and said, “Mom, I had a bad dream,” as she roused herself he heard his dad grumble, “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

It was like his nightmare was coming true--he was frozen with fear. His mom explained, “He had a bad dream, Terry,” in that low, almost whiny voice she used with his dad. Mickey hated that voice because it didn’t sound like her. It made him feel even more scared. 

“So fucking what? Go back to bed and stop being a little bitch.”

Mickey ran as fast as he could to his room and covered himself in blankets even though he knew they wouldn’t protect him if his dad couldn’t fall back asleep and blamed Mickey. He was so, so stupid, he should’ve remembered his dad was home. He should never have gone into his parents’ room. _Why_ hadn’t he remembered his dad was home?

He lay there, telling himself to stop crying and failing miserably. 

After a while he heard his door squeak open, which was a relief because if it had been his dad the thing would’ve been slammed off its hinges, and his mom whispered, “Hey, Mickey Mantle, you still up?”

“Yeah,” he said and he hoped she couldn’t hear the catch in his voice and he was grateful for the blankets which hid his tear-swollen eyes.

“I’ll sit with you till you fall asleep, okay?” she said.

He wanted to tell her he didn’t need her, that he wasn’t scared and would never be scared again, but he said, “Okay.”

She dragged a chair over to his bed and he curled up on his side facing away from her. It was stupid to feel safer with her there--she couldn’t protect him from his dad or his dreams--but he did. 

She settled into the creaky wooden chair. He breathed in and out and stopped crying. And as he was almost asleep he felt his mother gently press the back of her hand against his cheek. It was just for a moment--but he felt like she was trying to tell him something with this touch. Maybe it was, “I’m sorry about your nightmare,” or “I’m sorry about your dad,” but maybe it was “I love you.” 

He fell asleep and in the morning she was gone. So that was as close as anyone in his family ever came to saying ‘I love you.’ Even when his mom was dying she never said it. But by then Mickey didn’t want her to because he knew if she did it wouldn’t mean “I love you” it would mean good-bye, so fucking long, sayonara, The End. 

Now as he lays there next to Ian staring at the ceiling and the cobwebs in the corners of the room he touches Ian’s forehead and lightly runs his hands back and forth through Ian’s hair.

“That’s nice,” Ian mutters.

Mickey then puts his arms around him and tries to tell Ian something with his touch. Maybe it’s I love you, but mostly it’s don’t go don’t go don’t go.

*****

Ian is in bed for eight days this time. By the end of it, Mickey thinks if he does love Ian, it’s a selfish thing. 

After Ian freaked out at the Fairy Tail Mickey should’ve called the Gallaghers (he promised Fiona he would if something like this ever happened) but he didn’t. He didn’t want to deal with them. He thought they’d now insist Ian go to the hospital and Mickey refused to contemplate that. As bad as things were, the hospital always seemed worse. People went into hospitals and never came out. They entered the mental health system and grew unreachable. Practically every crazy homeless person had been in County at one time or another and what fucking good had it done for them? 

If Ian checks into a hospital Mickey will lose him forever. He doesn’t just feel this, he knows this. He isn’t going to let that happen. 

But what the hell can he do? Take Ian to the clinic? What if they force him to check into the hospital? They can do that, can’t they? Say you’re a danger to yourself or some shit? Admit you without your permission? And Ian isn’t even 18 yet. 

And is avoiding the hospital and the doctors good for Ian? Maybe Mickey is standing in the way of Ian getting better. Maybe love is only a bottomless pit of need. He had thought, briefly, that it might make you stronger. The day after he came out at the Alibi, his hundred cuts and bruises seemed to say, “this is what love can do--it can make you free.” He made a choice for Ian and it allowed him to defeat his father. At least that was what he thought at the time. Maybe he was in actual love and it had made him brave.

But now he thinks, no, it didn’t. He couldn’t lose Ian so he told the world he was gay. Love didn’t make him brave, it just changed what he feared the most. It used to be his father and now it’s losing Ian. Mickey is still a coward, still a pussy. A powerless coward who paces round the house and runs his hands through his hair like he’s going crazy himself. 

He keeps texting Mandy and asking her to come and visit Ian. He feels like if she is here things would be better. Maybe she can cheer Ian up where he can’t. Plus, and he barely admits this, he needs her himself. To yell at him and tell him to get a fucking grip. But she doesn’t text back. Mickey makes sure there are no guns or knives where Ian can get to them and he, Svetlana, and Nikka take turns staying home so Ian is never alone. 

Mickey begins to truly lose it around day six. It’s like there’s one thought in his head and it is “Ian’s not getting better and what the fuck are you going to do?”

The panic forces him to track Mandy down at one the diners where she works. He yells at her to come visit Ian. She screams at him and the whole thing’s a mess. He feels like everything keeps getting worse and worse.

After eight days Ian gets out of bed. Mickey is in the living room arguing with Svetlana about which movie to watch. He wants Sin City and she wants some Russian bullshit about women having careers and romances called, get this, Russia Does Not Believe in Tears. Nikka, who’s cleaning the kitchen, keeps butting in to stick up for Svetlana’s choice.

“It is romantic, beautiful movie!” Svetlana shouts.

“I’m not watching that bullshit!”

“It has happy ending, Mick!” Nikka yells as she mops the kitchen floor.

“Who the fuck cares--“ Mickey starts to say as Ian enters the room. They all fall silent as he sits down on the couch next to Mickey.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Mickey says trying to sound normal. To not start laughing or crying or sinking down into a fucking puddle of relief.

God, the relief.

The next few days it’s like before, Ian is able to walk around the house but not go outside yet. They watch a lot of TV in silence. In bed together, when Mickey now puts his arms around Ian, Ian curls into him, too, instead of merely allowing himself to be held. 

Mandy comes home the day after Ian is out of bed. She says she left Kenyatta permanently. Mickey’s relieved--not just that she’s away from that prick (at least for now) but that she’s home. When she’s around the crap with Ian is slightly more manageable. Life’s more manageable. She sits with Ian and they smile at each other and things are better.

The morning after she comes home, he stumbles out to the kitchen to get coffee and Mandy is there at the table, eating a chocolate donut. Like usual these days, her face before she puts her makeup on looks like shit. Another black eye and a huge bruise and cut on her cheek.

“Morning,” she says.

He grunts a reply, pours himself a cup, and sits across from her. They eat and drink in silence for a while. 

Eventually he points to her face, “So how long are you gonna stay away from that prick this time? Until those bruises are healed so he can give you another matching set or what?”

She sighs, “I’m not going back.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I mean it,” and she smiles, “If I do go back to him, _you_ can beat me up, okay? Beat me up for being a colossal idiot.”

“That’s not exactly funny, Mands.”

“What the hell happened to your sense of humor?”

“Maybe it died when my sister started getting beaten every other week and Ian became a depression case.”

She frowns, “Yeah, he’s not doing so good, is he?”

“He’s fine most of the time. He gets depressed sometimes but he’s fine.”

“You came to the diner to tell me how much you were worried about him.”

“So I wanted you to cheer him up a little, so fucking what?”

“That’s bullshit, Mick, you were really scared.”

“He’s fine and he’ll get better like he did last time.”

She turns her head and looks outta the window for a moment like she’s figuring out a way to say something. And then she turns back and says, “You ever think about what Fiona said? About taking him to the clinic?”

“He doesn’t need some shrink messing with his brain. They’re all a bunch of fucking quacks.”

“How would you know?”

“When has a doctor ever done a single good thing for this fucking family? Yeah, okay, they can take a bullet out of your ass or stitch up a knife wound, but that’s about it. You get something that eats up your insides, like cancer, and they can’t fucking do shit. And if there’s something wrong with your brain they’re even worse. Remember Aunt Jean? She went nuts or something, started wearing all her winter clothes in the middle of July? Remind me--what the fuck happened to her?”

“Jesus, Aunt Jean? Are you shitting me? Who the fuck knows what happened with her? Just because Uncle Ronnie cries about her whenever he’s drunk and says psychiatrists fucked her up--that doesn’t mean that’s what actually happened. And anyway, that was in the fucking 70s”

“She died, Mandy. In a fucking mental institution. She spent months locked up and then she killed herself and you’d think they’d fucking know how to stop that from happening in there.”

“Mick, what if Ian tries to kill himself out here? The South Side of Chicago isn’t exactly the safest place on earth.”

Mickey doesn’t have a reply. He bites his lip and glares at her. He’s angry, but not really cause she’s only saying everything he’s thought a million times. He runs his fingers through his hair, “I know, but I don’t know what the fuck I should do, okay? I think the clinic might send him to a fucking psych ward and who the fuck knows if I’d ever see him again? And who the fuck knows if that would help him? And maybe he doesn’t even want to go? And when he’s better he’s fine and…I think we can handle the rough patches,” he stops and then says tiredly, “Basically I don’t even fucking know…”

He gazes down into his coffee and Mandy is quiet for a while. Eventually she says, “Yeah. I don’t really know either. What the fuck should we do?” 

“I can’t lose him. I know that’s fucking stupid but--“

“It’s not stupid, you loser--you love him and he loves you. Of course you don’t want to lose him. That’s not fucking stupid.”

Mickey lifts his head and looks at her. No one in his family throws the word “love” around and now she’s saying it like it’s the most normal fucking thing? Mandy gives him a small, sad smile and then Nikka and Svetlana come out of their room, chattering in their fucking Commie language.

Mickey shouts, “You’re never gonna to learn English if you blab in fucking Russian all goddamn day!”

“Fuck off,” Svetlana says cheerfully. And then Ian comes out and grabs a donut and Mickey and Mandy try to hide how they can’t stop their eyes from following him worriedly.

*****

A few days later Ian and Mickey are watching _Die Hard_ on TV. They’re alone in the house, Mandy is on a job interview and Nikka and Svetlana took the baby to a doctor’s appointment. Ian and Mickey watch the movie in nearly total silence. Mickey sort of hates how quiet Ian is when he’s depressed. He misses all his stupid comments and dumb jokes that used to make it impossible to watch TV in peace. Towards the end of the film, during the commercials Ian breaks the silence to say abruptly, “You must really hate me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You take care of me. You put up with me. And I go around fucking other guys.”

It’s weird, because as much as learning that hurt, Mickey has almost forgotten about it. Of course a part of him hates the thought of Ian with other men but another part of him doesn’t have the energy to care. Ian is his and he knows it. Why the fuck should Mickey obsess about shit he did when he was going crazy? Like usual in Mickey’s fucked up life, tere are too many other things to worry about.

“Ian, do we have to talk about this?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t know why I did it. And it wasn’t just one time--“

“Yeah, I’m well aware of that. I think you’ve told me, in fucking detail, about 38 different times so far.”

“It was actually 12,” and then Ian looks at Mickey who starts laughing. And then Ian laughs, too. Mickey doesn’t even know what they are laughing at--maybe at how fucked up everything has gotten.

“Okay. 12. Can we fucking forget about it now?”

“Why are you pretending it doesn’t matter?”

“Cause it doesn’t.”

“C’mon, Mick. You get jealous all the time--I know it matters to you.”

Mickey shrugs.

Ian continues, “I feel like you’re not getting mad because you feel sorry for me. Or you’re worried that I’ll do something awful to myself. But really, you must hate me deep down,” and Ian’s voice now grows really quiet, “And then, I think maybe you’re just waiting till I get better so you can leave me.”

Mickey sighs, “I’m not gonna leave you--that’s just fucking stupid.” He thinks that should settle things but Ian still looks sad. “You think I’m angry, but I’m not angry. You know, that night I came and got you at the club you weren’t playing with a full deck, right? And you hadn’t been for weeks. I should’ve done something sooner to help you, but I didn’t know what to do. I never know what the fuck to do. And I don’t really care that you let a few guys suck you off when you were crazy and high out of your goddamn mind. I mean, I care, but I’m not angry. You were losing it.”

“I might’ve been losing it, but it was still me. I did those things.”

“So? Do you know how much shit I’ve done? And I wasn’t high or crazy, neither--I’ve just done some horrible shit. Fuck, I’ve done horrible shit to you.”

Mickey means the time he beat Ian up outside the abandoned projects. They’ve never talked about it before but Ian says now, “That was just because we were still dealing with all that crap your dad did to us.”

They’re both quiet because that day with Terry and Svetlana is something else they never talk about--although it hangs in the air almost every time Yevgeny is in the room.

Eventually, Mickey says, “See? You’re not angry with me for that. And so you got some blow jobs because you were fucked up and out of your mind. So what? If you need me to say I forgive you, then I forgive you. But can we please shut the fuck up about it from now on?”

Ian runs his hand over his face and rubs his eyes. Mickey hopes he’s not going to start crying. But when he takes his hand away, he’s smiling slightly in that typical Ian-way of his--like he knows a funny secret about Mickey.

“You know something?” 

“What?”

“I’m glad you exist.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

Ian laughs, “You Milkoviches can never take a complement. I’m glad you exist! I’m glad you’re here. I’m lucky cause I get to sleep next to you every night. I’m lucky you’re sitting on this couch with me right now. I’m lucky I’ve got someone who can make me smile even when I feel like dying. I’m glad there’s a Mickey fucking Milkovich who grew up on the South Side and started robbing the Kash and Grab every other day.”

Even though they mostly know how they feel about each other, they’re not exactly pour-out-your-feelings types. So this speech throws Mickey and he doesn’t know what to say. A part of him is simply happy that Ian is spewing out a shit-ton of words again. And he almost wants to spew some words right back. To say he feels the exact same way. To say the best day of his life was when he woke to discover Ian fucking Gallagher standing over his bed brandishing a tire iron. He doesn’t say this, though. Instead he lightly punches Ian on the arm, “Whatever, Gallagher. Now shut the fuck up. Hans Gruber is about to plummet off the Nakatomi Plaza.”

But Ian doesn’t shut up. Instead he shifts down the couch, leans over Mickey, and kisses him. Mickey kisses him back. It’s their first real, full-on kiss in about two weeks. God, the feel of him. Then Ian pulls away, only an inch, gazes right into his eyes and says, “I love you.”

Mickey blinks and stares at Ian’s face. For a moment he can’t look away. He sees Ian’s eyes. His lips. His freckles. No one has ever said that to him before. He didn’t think anyone ever would. And he thought he didn’t want to hear it, anyway. Now he knows that was a lie. He keeps staring at Ian’s face, lost for a moment. Then he pushes Ian off him and turns back to the TV. He says, “Okay, okay, enough of this girly shit.”

He thinks maybe Ian wants him to say it back. _Mickey_ wants to say it back--he doesn’t know why the words don’t come. He thinks maybe Ian will be hurt cause he can’t say it. But Ian laughs and settles back down on the couch, closer to Mickey than he was before. 

“It’s okay, Mick. I know you love me, too.” And there’s something in his voice that sounds so sure. Like, he knows Mickey better than Mickey knows himself. And Mickey is a little irritated at that, but also kinda relieved. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

They finish watching the movie and they can’t stop smiling like idiots. And Mickey pushes his worries away and he tells himself that things will be good again. Ian loves him and things have got to be okay. The fucking world owes him that much.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some suicidal thoughts in this chapter.

After Mickey rescued him from his breakdown at the Fairy Tail, Ian lived through some of the worst days of his life. And considering he had parents like Frank and Monica, who each provided him with hundreds of shitty memories, including watching his mother’s wrists spurt blood on the kitchen floor on Thanksgiving day, that was saying something.

At first, he simply feels paralyzed. Heavy with despair, grief, and sadness that he can’t even name. And then later, when he can think more clearly, he’s hit with all the various ways he’s screwed up, the various ways he’s fucked up, and the various ways he’s a terrible human being. These thoughts come at him like an elevator collapsing on his head. 

His actions from before this latest crash--if he had heard someone else describe them he would think, “Christ, that guy sounds like an insane asshole.” But it was _him_. He did them. What the fuck can he make of that? Who is he? Apparently, if his mind goes batshit and he takes a few drugs, he then becomes as selfish as Frank and as thoughtless as Monica. He’s not who he thought he was.

During this time, when he’s stuck in the house and obsessively recalling his hurtful mistakes, he wishes he could kill himself. He’d be better off (he thinks) and more importantly he believes Mickey, Mandy, and his brothers and sisters might be, too. They wouldn’t have to worry about him on top of their other million worries. But he also remembers Monica on that kitchen floor and he knows, even while a part of him longs to find his own knife, that they might be better off but they’d still be really sad. And he can’t do that to them. He’s going to have to try to be better. Somehow.

When he feels well enough to leave the house again, he decides he’s not going to get his job back at the Fairy Tail. Honestly, they’d probably rehire him with almost no questions asked. Lots of guys have breakdowns in that place and if they thought you were hot and even vaguely reliable they’d say whatever, but he doesn’t want to go back there. It was ridiculous believing he could make things work at a place where every night there was a constant stream of men offering him drugs and sex. What the fuck had he been thinking?

So when a day arrives in which he can think clearly, his muscles don’t ache, and he doesn’t wish he were dead--on that day he knows he’ll be able to leave the house. So he showers, dresses, and opens the door to the outside world. He’s set on doing three things. The first is stopping by the Kash and Grab to talk to Linda.

On the way to the store it feels strange to be outside again. It’s almost July and the weather is actually nice--not too hot, but sunny with a brilliant blue sky. And the whole neighborhood is filled with people doing normal things like grabbing a bite for lunch or hanging out on their stoops smoking, eating popsicles, and generally living their lives like it’s no big deal. Like it’s easy. What he wouldn’t give to be like them.

Linda is barking orders to a kid behind the counter (Ian vaguely recognizes him--it’s one of the Ramirez’ brothers he thinks, maybe Victor who’s got to be about 15 now). But when she sees Ian she frowns, eyes him up and down, says he looks “pasty”, and asks him how he’s doing. 

He doesn’t tell her the truth, he says, “Um, good, good. I left town for a while but now I’m back. And I was wondering if maybe, I could, um, work here again?”

He’s always wondered how Linda could look at you and basically weigh your soul. If ever there was a mind-reader, it was her. Now she purses her lips, gives him a sharp stare, and says after a moment, “All right. Why not? You’re better than any of the other jokers I’ve got working here now,” and she frowns at the Ramirez kid who shrugs disinterestedly.

Ian and Linda talk a while longer and work out which shifts he’ll take. Before he leaves she asks, “So how’s the juvenile delinquent doing?” because somehow she seems to know that he and Mickey are together. Ian tells her that he’s living with Mickey now. She says that’s good because i means Mickey won’t be stealing from the store (“and if he does, you’re fired.”) 

The second thing Ian does is to walk to the high school where he asks the Admin office about re-enrolling in the Fall. He’s amazed because a bored woman behind the counter takes a look at his transcript and tells him he only needs two more classes to graduate. He had been so hell-bent on applying to West Point his first three years that he went beyond almost all the Chicago Public Schools’ graduation requirements in an effort to meet West Point’s tough standards. The lady says, “Yeah, take Civics and Econ and you’re done by the end of Fall semester.” So he registers for those two classes.

On the walk home he thinks about how his entire life was once angled towards one goal, becoming a military officer and escaping the drunken, drug-addled, mentally ill curse of the Gallaghers. He came close, too, before he blew it. Things could be worse, though. At least he’ll still graduate and maybe then he could go to community college or something. 

That night, when they’re alone in their room before bed, he tells Mickey about the high school re-enrollment. Mickey seems pleased, “You’ll be the first high school graduate this house has ever seen, that’s for fucking sure.”

And when he tells Mickey he’s abandoning the Fairy Tail to work at the Kash and Grab, Mickey loses the worry lines that are perpetually around his eyes these days and he laughs, “No shit, you’re going back there? I sorta miss that place sometimes.”

“You miss it? You were shot there.”

“So? I get shot lots of places. But I also had a ton of good sex there.”

“Oh yeah? With anyone I know?” Ian jokes.

Mickey pretends to think about it and grins, “Nah, man, I don’t think so. Do you know Tommy Zurski? Or Dale Grafton? Or how ‘bout Bruce Newburg--“ Ian kisses him to stop him from inventing more pretend hook-ups. And then they’re laughing and kissing and Ian throws Mickey down on the bed (Mickey likes being manhandled a bit). He stands there for a moment looking down at his guy. Sometimes when they’re fucking or making out Mickey will get this look on his face like he could stare at Ian forever. He has that look now and Ian wonders what Mickey sees when he looks at him--even now, after his several breakdowns Mickey still gazes at him like he’s the answer to all Mickey’s problems--to all the _world’s_ problems, actually. Ian leans down and covers Mickey’s body with his own and kisses him deeply. Mickey’s hand comes up and grasps Ian’s neck gently and Ian lets his regrets fall away and focuses only on Mickey’s skin. They have sex in their bed for the first time in weeks.

Afterwards, Mickey sleeps and Ian lies next to him, naked, happy, and spent. He listens to Mickey’s steady breaths and thinks about their relationship. The weird thing, or maybe the beautiful thing, about him and Mickey is every time something horrible happens, or every time one of them hurts the other, they only seem to grow closer later. Ian doesn’t know how this works or what it means. But it’s what always happens. It makes him feel like no matter what, they’ll be together. He can’t imagine anything right now that could be worse than some of the shit they’ve already been through. It’s almost a scary realization--to know you’re going to spend the rest of your life with someone when you’re not quite eighteen--but this is the conclusion Ian draws. The rest of his life with Mickey Milkovich. They’ll be 80 and still calling each other asshole and douchebag. 

It doesn’t sound half bad.

*****

There’s a third thing Ian knows he has to do, but it takes him days to work up to it. Eventually, one afternoon he walks a few blocks over, back to the Gallagher house, hoping that Lip will be there now that it’s summer and school’s out. Luckily he finds Lip making out with his new girlfriend Amanda on the couch as they babysit a napping Liam. To Ian’s relief, Carl, Debbie, and Fiona aren’t there. Lip can tell Ian needs something so he says to Amanda, “Hey, do you mind if I call you later?” and she gets the hint and leaves. He and Lip go to the kitchen. Lip hands Ian a beer as they sit at the table, and then he says, “Okay, shoot.”

Ian picks at the beer label for a while before he begins, “Remember a few months ago when you and Fiona wanted me to visit the clinic?”

“Yeah.”

“So would you still go with me now? Like today? If I needed you to?”

“Sure.”

Ian nods but his heart is pounding now that it’s becoming a reality, “I _really_ don’t want to go, Lip.”

“Well we don’t have to--”

“No, I want to. But I don’t want to. It’s like sometimes nothing is wrong. Like today--nothing’s really wrong, right? I mean, do I seem okay to you?”

“Yeah, you do.”

“So I think maybe things will be okay from now on. But then I remember that I thought that before. Like several times before. And each time things got worse. I mean, I stole a fucking helicopter. And last month--” He has a hard time saying it, “Last month I dicked around with random guys. Like I love Mickey and I’m just dicking around and barely aware of what I’m doing. And my mind--it just goes fucking batshit sometimes.”

“You know what this probably is, right? The same crap Monica has.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she wasn’t really in control of her actions a lot of the time, was she?”

“That’s Monica, though. She’s a fuck up. I don’t want to be like that. I used to think I was so much better than her. I used to think I had it _together_ , you know? More together than you. More together than Fiona. I was on the fucking honor roll. I was in ROTC. I had a plan for my life. And I was a nice person--a good person--I mean, I thought I was a good person. I don’t know if I am anymore. I held a knife to someone’s throat. I let random guys blow me because it felt good--even though I knew it would hurt Mickey. I beat up some poor guy in basic training and I can’t even remember why.”

Lip sighs. “I had this exact conversation with Fiona when she got out of jail. So you’re not perfect? Who is? Dude, you’re probably bi-polar and so it makes you do stupid shit. But you are different from Monica and I know this. I know this because you and I, we’re going to go down to the clinic and we’re going to get you lithium and you’re going to take it every day and you’ll be fine. Monica was never fine because she didn’t want to be. Did she ever take her meds for more than a week at a time? But that’s not you.”

“Yeah, but who am I, then? What kind of person am I if my brain doesn’t work right? If I need fucking lithium just to function?”

“You’re someone with an illness. And it sucks, but you’ll take care of it. You’re Ian Gallagher. You’ll get a handle on this. I know it.”

Ian nods. He wants to believe Lip, but he’s still scared. However, he does feel better being here, in the house where he grew up, talking to his brother. Nobody on the planet knows him as well as Lip does. They have all the same fucked-up childhood memories. The same fucked-up parents. 

He quietly says the other thing he’s scared of, “I’m worried if I go to the clinic they’re gonna make me check in to the hospital.”

“That won’t happen cause I’ll be there. I’m 19 now and kind of your guardian,” Ian laughs at that, “And I won’t let them do that. I promise.”

*****

They drop Liam at Sheila’s and head to the clinic on Ashland Avenue. Usually, the wait is about ninety minutes (an hour if you were lucky) but today they aren’t lucky at all and after two hours Ian turns to Lip who’s just picked up his fifth magazine from a dusty bin in the corner and says, “You know it’s okay--you should go--who the fuck knows when they’ll get around to calling me, and--“

Lip cuts him off, “No, it’s fine. I’m good. I’m catching up on my _Good Housekeeping_ reading and where else am I going to find a _Highlights_ magazine from--“ and he glances at the cover of the issue he picked up, “Holy shit, 2005?”

Ian is momentarily distracted from his nervousness, “It does not say that.”

Lip holds up the cover and it does indeed say April 2005. They both start laughing loudly and they draw scowls from the other sick people in the waiting room. Just then a nurse enters and calls out, “Ian Gallagher?”

“Um, yeah, that’s me,” he says as he stands up to follow her. But before he leaves the room he gives a backwards, worried glance to Lip--like he’s still a little kid and needs reassurance from his big brother.

Lip says, “I could come with you if you want? Or--“

“No,” Ian says, “It’s all right. I can do this.”

“Well, I’ll be out here reading the thrilling exploits of Goofus and Gallant if you need me, okay?”

Ian smiles, “Okay.”

He follows the nurse back into the jumbled maze of cubicles and patient rooms. Eventually she stops outside one and gestures at him to enter it. He does. He sits down and she immediately velcros a blood pressure sleeve around his right arm and jabs a thermometer under his tongue without asking. The sleeve constricts his arm painfully and he looks at the numbers on the machine. 133. 131.

She undoes the Velcro and swipes the thermometer out of his mouth. She notes the numbers down.

“Is it normal?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“My blood pressure? Is it normal?”

“Oh yeah, pretty much. Now wait here and the nurse practitioner will be in shortly.”

He nods and continues sitting on the examining table that’s covered in that crinkly sort of paper they always have, which turns each slight movement into a loud crackle.

He waits for what seems like an hour but what’s probably 10 minutes. The walls of the room, like the rest of the clinic, are painted in an ugly pink color that makes Ian feel like he’s inside a dying salmon’s stomach. Despite running from military police and tangling with Terry Milkovich not once, but twice, in his life, Ian has never felt more scared than he does now. Once the nurse practitioner enters this room and he tells her about himself, this will finally be absolutely, irrevocably real. He’ll be sick. Mentally ill. Bi-polar. Forever.

He really doesn’t want to be.

Life isn’t fair. He remembers West Point cadet basic training starts in a week or two and he wishes he were on his way there. Well, maybe not, because he kind of hated the army if he were honest--but he wishes he were starting college soon _somewhere_. Instead he’s a wreck who can’t trust his own mind, grateful to have his old job back at the Kash and Grab.

Suddenly, this kid he knew in ROTC, Kenny Doepke, pops into his mind. Kenny was a douche. Dumb and whiney--he was always complaining about drills and if it was anywhere above 80 degrees he claimed he would pass out if he couldn’t have a million glasses of water. His parents were a cop and a teacher. He lived in one of the nice houses on 46th Street. He seemingly had no problems in his life. None. Nothing that made his life difficult in any respect. He had some friends. His parents looked out for him. He had enough money. He wasn’t too weird looking. He had a girlfriend and was heterosexual (not that Ian wanted to be straight but it did seem to make life easier). And a month ago Ian ran into him at Aldi and Kenny said, “Hey, Ian, guess what? I’m going to West Point! I was on the wait list but now I’m in!” and Ian was in the middle of a manic high phase so he said, “Great!” but now he thinks, fuck stupid fucking Kenny Doepke. _Fuck him_. Why do some people have everything and others nothing? Why can’t Kenny fucking Doepke be bi-polar? Hadn’t Ian already received enough shit in life’s adversity lottery?

The door to his clinic room finally opens and the nurse practitioner enters. She’s a short, squat woman with bushy brown hair and she’s wearing a long white medical coat.

“Ian?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

She crosses over to him and sits on a chair, “I’m Gail Foschini. So…” and she starts flipping through what he supposes is his chart, “You believe you’re bi-polar?”

“Uh, maybe. Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe not?”

“Well, why do you think you might be?”

He starts telling her almost everything (he leaves out the army crap, of course, and also the Fairy Tail stuff because he’s technically seventeen and not old enough to be there, either) but he describes his weeks with no sleep, his crazy energy, and his random behavior and then how these weeks always end in flat despair.

She listens and scribbles on his chart. He thought it would be hard to talk to a stranger, but it’s actually easy. She has no expectations. She doesn’t know him and doesn’t know who he used to be. She never met his dad or his mom. She doesn’t know he spent his life trying to be the opposite of his parents only to discover his DNA had other ideas. She doesn’t seem to realize that being a Gallagher means he would probably have always come to a bad end. So he talks and talks and when he finally finishes she shoots him a sympathetic look and says, “It sounds like you’re bipolar all right.”

“So what happens now? Do you give me lithium?”

“I can prescribe it, but I recommend you see a psychiatrist. I’m not a mental health specialist and you need a specialist. It takes a while to balance your meds--everyone’s mental chemistry is different--and manic depression can be complex. It might even be a good idea for you to be hospitalized now so they can really figure out how to treat you.”

“No. That’s not an option.”

“I know it sounds frightening, but it’s really not. You check yourself in for a few days and the doctors have a lot of time to talk with you in depth, and to balance your medications, and then you check out.”

“Can you please just prescribe me the lithium?”

“Will you at least visit a psychiatrist or a psychologist? I can write down some phone numbers for doctors that work on a sliding scale--for you they’d charge about five or ten dollars a session.”

“Yeah, sure,” but he isn’t planning on calling them. He wants this to be over and done with today. Get a prescription, take the pills, and be sane again. She writes the lithium prescription out in her doctor’s (or nurse practitioner’s) scrawl and hands it to him. Perhaps his worry shows on his face because before she leaves she says, “You know, Ian, you’re going to be fine.”

He gives her a tight smile. He hopes so, but he’s not sure if he believes it.

In the waiting room, Lip stands when Ian comes out, “So you’re good? You got the prescription?”

“Yeah.”

Lip claps him on the back, “Well, let’s go get it.”

“You don’t have to come with me...”

“What else have I got to do?”

At CVS they drop prescription off and wait around for twenty-five minutes until it’s filled. They wander the aisles and Lip tells Ian about how he once fucked some girl in the bathroom here.

“How the fuck do you always get so many girls?” Ian asks.

“No idea,” Lip answers.

“And like, so fast, too. They meet you and then bang! Literally.”

“Well, isn’t that how it works with you and guys? You have no problem attracting the middle-aged creeper demographic. As well as the closeted ROTC cadet or local street thug contingent.”

Ian hits him on the shoulder for vaguely insulting Mickey. Lip says, “Ow!” and rubs his arm, “I’m just saying maybe it’s a Gallagher trait--being irresistible.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s it. It’s probably more like people can tell we’re easy lays.”

“Hmm, you may be right.”

They’ve somehow ended up in the women’s make-up/skin care section. Lip starts reading labels, “Christ, this stuff is expensive. And toner? What the fuck is toner? I thought that was printer ink.”

“It’s like cleanser, except not.”

Lip is busy being entranced by women’s facial cleansing products when Ian says, “Thanks, you know, for coming with me today.”

Lip lifts his eyes from a bottle of lavender scented witch hazel, “Anytime, man. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know that,” Ian smiles, “I’ve missed you. And everyone else in our stupid family, actually. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much these past months.”

“No, c’mon. You’ve been going through all this shit. Plus, I didn’t come by when I should’ve cause of Mandy and that’s pathetic. I’m gonna be around all the time from now on. Visiting you in your land of pimps, whores, and Milkoviches or whatever you call it.”

“House. It’s called a house, Lip. A few hookers and some Milkoviches just happen to live there.”

Without discussing it, they head back to the pharmacy counter because it’s time for the prescription to be ready.

Lip tries to say casually, “So, uh, how is Mandy doing, anyway?”

“She’s good. She got a job at some fancy North Side diner last week and I think she likes it.”

“Is she still with Kenyatta?”

“No, thankfully they finally broke up.”

“Why? You didn’t like him?”

Ian realizes that Lip never knew Kenyatta hit Mandy and he had forgotten that. He also knows that Mandy would hate Lip knowing, “It’s just that the guy was a prick. Not good enough for her.”

“You used to say the same thing about me.”

“Your point being?”

“Ha ha. Well, maybe you were right. She has her problems, Mandy, but she’s kind of great in other ways.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

They arrive at the pick-up window. Before the pharmacist hands over Ian’s drugs, he reads, in a droning voice, lithium’s list of possible side-effects for about 10 minutes. Ian doesn’t pay attention. He has to take this stuff so he doesn’t want to be nervous about it.

Clutching his pharmacy paper bag, he and Lip exit the drugstore.

“Hey, you want to come to dinner tonight?” Lip asks.

“Nah, maybe tomorrow?”

“Okay.” They walk two blocks together until it’s time for Lip to turn right in order to pick up Liam at Sheila’s. Ian is expecting Lip to say, “See you later,” and walk away but instead he’s surprised when Lip gives him a hug and then grabs the side of his head. He says, “You’ll be fine. I know it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know.” Ian smiles at his brother. Lip then lets him go, hurries away, and shouts, “Dinner! Tomorrow!”

Ian walks home. It actually feels more like home than Gallagher house does to him these days. Svetlana and Yevgeny are there and Ian makes dinner for them and whoever else shows up. He boils a big pot of spaghetti, heats up a can marinara sauce, and opens a jar pureed yams for Yev who’s recently started eating solid food. As they begin to eat Mickey comes home and Ian fixes him a plate. Then Nikka walks in the door and sits down to eat, too. And then, Mandy’s home from her new, trendy diner. Her bruises have almost totally healed and she looks great. 

As they eat together he thinks it’s actually not so bad being himself. Being Ian Gallagher. He has five brothers and sisters who love him. He’s got Mickey. And Mandy. And even this weird sort-of-family of pimps, whores, and Milkoviches like Lip said. Maybe the lithium will work and he’ll be normal again. Maybe he’ll finish high school and apply to community college, or even a four-year university like DePaul or UIC. And even if he has to work at the Kash and Grab for the next fifty years, that wouldn’t be so bad, actually. Glancing at Mickey’s face across the table Ian thinks he wouldn’t trade places with Kenny Doepke for anything. Not for West Point. Not for stable parents. Not for sanity, even. Kenny Doepke doesn’t have what he has.

*****

Later after some crazy sex that involved Mickey’s anal beads (“Fucking finally,” Mickey said) Mickey and Ian lie in bed in the dark. Ian threads one of his hands through Mickey’s and stares at their intertwined fingers in the moonlight. It’s midnight and they’ve got the windows open. Every so often they hear a car drive by, or a dog bark, on the street outside.

Ian wants to tell Mickey about the clinic and the lithium prescription but he doesn’t know how to begin. Practically everything about his illness freaks Mickey out and he wishes he could tell Mickey that it will all be okay, but he can’t because he doesn’t really know if it will. 

He says, “So--“ but he can’t finish the sentence. 

“So?” Mickey asks.

“So why’d your parents name you ‘Mickey’ anyway?” It’s not what he wants to say but it’s something he’s wondered about and it’s the first question that comes to mind. He always thought the name was sort of…well, cute. It doesn’t really fit with the whole Milkovich vibe.

Mickey laughs, pulls his hand away, and puts both arms behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling, “My parents? You think my dad gave a shit what any of us were called? Nah, man, my mom picked it out.”

“Okay--so why she’d pick Mickey?”

Mickey replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “After Mickey Mantle--greatest switch hitter of all time.”

Ian leans over Mickey to peer at his face in the dim light, “Wait a minute; you’re named after a Yankee?”

“Yeah, I know, but my mom liked baseball a lot and she said some players you have to love--no matter who they play for--because they’re that good. She didn’t even really grow up watching him, she was too young, but her dad liked Mickey Mantle a lot, so…”

“Huh.” It’s the most Mickey has ever talked about his mom, “Did she take you to games and stuff?”

“I don’t know. Maybe once or twice. But she knew a shit ton about baseball. She had a good memory and she’d memorize all these stats and win bets in bars because of it. It was before the internet was really around, ya’ know? And she’d have it all in her head and she’d make a bet and the whole bar--all the fucking guys who thought they knew more than some girl--well, they’d try to stump her with stuff but she’d always win.”

“Huh,” Ian says again. It sounded like something Lip would do. “She must’ve been pretty smart.”

“She was all right, I guess.”

Ian has a million questions but he doesn’t know how to ask them. He wants to know how old Mickey and Mandy were when she died. What she died of. If she was a good mom--whatever that meant. What Mickey had thought of her. If Mickey still missed her. Ian sometimes got the sense from Mandy, during a few times when she very briefly mentioned their mother, that she had been nice. Or at least, nice for a Milkovich. Once they were in the school cafeteria and Mandy bought a Rice Krispy treat and she said her mom used to make the best Rice Krispy treats in the world. And while Rice Krispy treats weren’t exactly culinary art--it seemed like an actual normal mom thing to do. 

But he can tell that Mickey doesn’t want to talk about her anymore so he stops asking questions. And anyway there’s something he has to say. 

He stops being a chicken-shit and blurts out, “So I went to the clinic with Lip today.”

He feels Mickey tense beside him, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And I told them about what’s been going on with me and they gave me a prescription. It should help.”

“They didn’t want you to go to the hospital?”

Ian decides to stretch the truth a bit, “No hospital. I’ve got to see if these pills work, but if they don’t I’ll just go back to the clinic and get a different prescription. I mean--I don’t want to go to the hospital so I won’t go.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything and Ian hesitatingly runs his hand down Mickey’s arm, back and forth.

He decides to make a promise he’s not sure he can keep, “I’m gonna be okay, Mick. I swear.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not gonna end up like my mother.”

“I know that, too,” Mickey sighs and turns on his side to face Ian, “It’s a good thing you got that prescription. I should’ve taken you to that fucking clinic--I was too fucking scared--but you needed to go so I should’ve stopped being a pussy and taken you.”

“It’s okay. I was scared, too. That’s why I didn’t go sooner. But it’ll be all right now. I’ll take my pills and everything will be fine.”

Mickey nods and then puts his arms around Ian and they hold each other until they fall asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

“I gotta go watch Liam for an hour or two,” Ian announces one morning in early August. Mickey is at the dining room table adding up July’s Rub N’ Tug’s expenses. Svetlana and Nikka took the baby to something called a “Storytime” at the library (the kid can’t even fucking speak yet, so why’s he need to hear a fucking story?) and Mandy’s probably still asleep in her room. Her door is closed at least, although Mickey didn’t hear her come in last night and he and Ian went to bed at 2.

“Why?”

“Cause Fiona has a last minute shift at the restaurant, Lip’s somewhere dicking around with Amanda, and Fiona has no idea where Debbie and Carl are,” Ian utters this last remark sourly. Mickey doesn’t know if he’s angry with Fiona for not knowing where the kids are, or if he’s angry at the kids for running off and not telling her where’d they be. Lately, things that once would’ve rolled off Ian’s back no problem, now seem to irritate him, like the world is jabbing him with a thousand tiny needles.

Mickey tries to be reasonable. He’s not some clingy girl who can’t stop worrying about her fucking boyfriend--but it’s not easy. The last few months have definitely been the opposite of easy. Like now, as Ian runs around pulling his t-shirt over his head and lacing up his sneakers, Mickey worries about the next few hours when Ian won’t be home. If he’s here in the house, no matter how pissy he is, Mickey’s sure he’s okay. But out there…Mickey knows that Ian’s telling the truth about the baby-sitting because he heard the phone ring and he heard Fiona’s voice on the other end, but he still thinks about what will happen _after_ Ian watches Liam. Will he walk straight home? Or will he go fuck knows where? Lately (and Ian doesn’t even realize that Mickey’s noticed) there are many hours when Ian says he’s at work but Mickey stops by the Kash and Grab and he’s not there. Or he says he’s at the Gallaghers, but then Debbie will stop by to gab with Mandy and she hasn’t seen Ian at home. So Mickey worries.

And besides all that, there’s something else that Mickey can’t define. Ian’s not depressed like before, he never lays in bed all day or anything, but when Mickey hesitatingly asks, “So, are you doing okay?” usually Ian rolls his eyes and complains, “Yes! Jesus Christ, stop bugging me,” but there was this one time he answered, “Yeah, except every now and then I feel empty, you know? Like a big cup that’s had all the Slurpee sucked out of it.”

“The fuck? So you’re a Slurpee now?” Mickey joked, thinking that Ian was joking, too. But Ian only smiled weakly and walked away.

Anyway, now Mickey says, “Well, have fun with your brother.” Ian gives him a quick kiss on the lips that feels nice and strange to Mickey all at the same time (casual affection like it’s no big deal, like Ian loves Mickey so much he doesn’t even have to think about it) and as he’s on his way out the front door Mandy exits her room bleary-eyed and wearing a ratty black t-shirt.

“Morning,” she grunts.

“Morning, Mands! See you both later!” Ian shouts as he opens the door and leaves.

“Where’re you going?” she asks Ian but he’s already gone.

She then calls to Mickey as she shuffles to the front door to re-bolt it, “So where’s he going?”

They don’t discuss _why_ , but they’ve both memorized Ian’s usual work and family baby-sitting schedules. She knows this isn’t a planned outing.

“Watching Liam last minute for Fiona,” Mickey answers. They regard each other for a minute, sharing worry.

“Does he seem all right to you?” she finally asks.

“More or less.”

“He never really laughs anymore. You notice that?”

“He’s on medication. He’s been through tons of shit. So what if he’s not Mr. Cheery all the goddamn time?”

“I know. I just want him to be happy, you know?”

Mickey knows. Mandy shrugs, walks over to the kitchen, and rummages in the cupboards.

“So where were you last night?” he asks her. 

“Some lame party on the North Side. _Shit_ music. Boring people. But tons of free booze. Hey, is there anything to eat for fucking breakfast?”

“Eggo waffles in the freezer,” he answers and then goes back to the Rub N’ Tugs’ accounts. 

She starts unwrapping frozen waffles and clinking silverware and he complains, “Could you make any more fucking noise?”

“Fuck off.”

As she presses the waffle down into the toaster suddenly the entire house shakes and there’s a loud thump, thump, thump as someone pounds at the door. The Milkovich door never used to be locked. Ever. But since Terry returned to prison, Mickey changed the locks and now they always bolt the door in case their father is released early.

“What the fuck is that?” Mickey asks and before he can really think about it, it’s like his body knows it might be Terry and he runs for the big metal case in the corner where he’s locked his guns ever since he’s been worried about Ian getting hold of them. In about two seconds he has his AR-15 in his hands when he hears a familiar voice yell from outside the house, “Mandy! Yo MAN-DY! I need to talk to you!”

Mickey lowers the gun and turns accusingly to his sister, “Fucking Kenyatta? I thought you finished with him?”

“I did!”

There’s more pounding on the door and then, “Mandy! I’m sorry, baby! I’m so sorry! I miss you--I can’t do anything without you! Can you come out here and talk to me? Please, baby!”

Mickey laughs at how pathetic Kenyatta sounds, and also with relief that it’s not his dad outside. But then he glances at Mandy who looks scared and sad all at once. Kenyatta keeps pounding at their door, shouting, “Please, Mandy! Come on! Just talk to me. Please!”

There’s more thumping and Mickey says to her, almost softly, “It doesn’t look like he’s going away.”

Mandy’s jaw clenches and she nods, “I know. I’ll talk to him.”

She heads towards the door but Mickey reaches out his hand to stop her, “No, wait, hold on. Lemme ask you something--“

Mandy isn’t really listening to him, she’s biting her lip and he can tell she’s still focused on Kenyatta’s shouts and pleas coming from outside, but Mickey asks her, “Do you actually want to talk to him?”

“What the fuck are you talking about ‘want’? He’s out there so I have to deal with him. He’s probably not gonna do anything--”

“No. What I mean is--“ and then something pops into his head, something from a dumb Disney movie they watched when they were kids, “Like if you had magic powers--or like if you had your own genie or some shit--what would you want to happen? Would you want to talk to him right now? Would you want to get back together with this prick eventually? Or would you want him dead? What do you want?”

She’s staring at him like she’s not quite sure he’s speaking English, but she takes a deep breath and actually answers, “I don’t know. I guess I’d want him gone. Out of my life.”

Mickey nods, “Well, okay then. Today is your lucky fucking day.”

He walks past her, still holding his gun, and she hisses frantically, “Wait! Mickey--don’t fucking kill him! That’s not what I meant, Jesus fucking Christ!”

“Don’t worry,” he says as he reaches the door and turns the deadbolt, “I won’t kill him. Probably. Stay back, okay?”

“Mickey!” she yells but he’s unlocked the bottom lock now and he swings the door open and quickly raises his gun. Kenyatta stares at him, unimpressed.

“Your sister home?” he asks as if there’s nothing abnormal about the situation as Mickey aims a semi-automatic at him.

“She ain’t here.”

Kenyatta starts to enter but Mickey blocks him with the gun and says, “I don’t think so, pal.” Kenyatta backs away slightly but he catches sight of Mandy standing in the house near the doorway, wearing just her black t-shirt and crossing her arms in front of herself as though they could protect her from him.

“Mandy! Mandy, I need to talk to you--come out here, baby!”

“Go the fuck away!” she shouts.

Mickey smiles, “See? She don’t wanna talk to you.”

“Yes, she does--Mandy!”

Mickey continues like Kenyatta never spoke, “You know I sat back for months watching you treat my sister like crap. Choking her. Punching her. And I didn’t do shit, d’you know why?”

Kenyatta glowers at him.

“Because she still wanted to be with you. And if she wanted you, I wasn’t gonna interfere. Wasn’t my place. But now she _don’t_ want you. So I’m thinking I could do anything I want. Pay you back for all the crap you did to her. Shoot off your kneecaps. Or maybe your dick. Shoot you in the fucking head, even,” and he raises the gun until it’s an inch from Kenyatta’s skull.

“You’re not shooting me on your porch in the middle of the fucking morning.”

“Why the fuck not? You’re trying to break into my fucking house. I could say I’m defending my property and my fucking family. And guess what?--this right here happens to be the one gun I’ve even got a fucking license for. I guess what I’m trying to say is: Do you really think the cops would do shit to me for hurting you?”

Kenyatta stands there, pursing his lips for a moment, before finally capitulating, “Okay, okay, I’m going.” But as he’s backing away he feints forward and makes a quick move to grab the gun. Mickey could’ve told him not to bother, because he’s pulled similar tricks in his life. He’s expecting something like this and he lifts the gun before Kenyatta can get hold of it and jabs him hard in the face with the handle.

“Argh!” Kenyatta yells and there’s blood spurting out of his nose and cheek. He’s holding his face and shouting random curse words. Mickey stares at him with his eyebrows raised, “Get the fuck outta here and don’t come back. Cause the next time I see you I will kill you.” 

But Kenyatta is shouting and barely making sense, “Fuck you! Fuck you--you broke my fucking nose! Mandy! Get out here! Fuck, fuck! Mandy! Fuck you!”

Mickey fires bullets at the ground a few feet from Kenyatta and he flinches and raises his hands in surrender, “All right, all right, I’m going!”

But he’s still clutching his face so Mickey fires the gun at the ground again until Kenyatta takes off sprinting like Flo-Jo.

He watches till Kenyatta is long gone down the block before closing the door and turning back to Mandy who’s still standing in the living room. She seems wrung out. She drags a hand through her hair.

“You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve handled him.”

He shrugs and walks back to the gun case. He clicks the gun’s safety in place, lowers it inside, and closes the lid. Spins the dials of the combination so it’s locked again.

“Do you really have a license for that?”

“Yeah, I figured it’d be good to have at least one that was legal.”

She inhales shakily and walks over to a bookcase where Svetlana’s vodka is sitting. She grabs the bottle, sets it on the table, and asks, “You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

She takes a couple shot glasses from the kitchen, plus her now toasted Eggo waffle, and comes back. She pours two shots. They slam ‘em back and grimace identically.

“Shit, this stuff is fucking battery acid,” Mandy gasps..

“Svetlana thinks the cheaper a vodka is, the better it works.”

She pours two more shots and right after they’ve thrown these back and are sputtering again, Mandy’s bedroom door opens and a small guy with brown hair sticking up every which way steps out. He’s wearing what are clearly his clothes from last night. Wrinkled gray pants and a rumpled green t-shirt.

He seems surprised to see the two of them doing shots at 10:15 AM, but he only says, “Hi.”

“Oh, hi,” Mandy says and Mickey can tell she’d forgotten he was here.

“I had the weirdest dream, I was in a jungle ravine fighting these soldiers and there was all this shouting and a bunch of guns going off. And the guns sounded so loud, it was like they were here, in this house.”

Mickey and Mandy stare at him blankly for a moment, not quite believing he slept through Kenyatta’s assault on their door and Mickey’s gunshots, until Mandy kind of springs to life and says, “Uh, Mickey, this is uh, uh--“ and she’s practically squinting at the guy in an effort to remember his name until he helps her and interjects, “I’m Bilbo. Pleased to meet you.”

“Bilbo?” Mickey asks turning to Mandy, “ _Bilbo_?” 

The guy stutters, “Uh, yeah. It’s a nickname. It’s actually kind of a funny story how I got it--“ but Mickey cuts him off with a wave of his hand; he wasn’t asking the idiot guy he was asking Mandy and he’s starting to smirk, “Seriously? You fucked a guy named _Bilbo_?”

“Shut up, asshole. I didn’t know his name.”

Mickey is now full-on grinning and she smacks his arm.

Bilbo, meanwhile, has fixed his eyes on Mandy’s forgotten Eggo waffle, waiting forlornly on her plate, “Do you mind if I grab some breakfast with you, or…?”

“Sorry, but I think it’s better if you go home,” Mandy says. Mickey can tell she’s trying to say it nicely but she doesn’t want to deal with this guy after the morning she’s had. So Mickey chimes in, “Yeah, Bilbo, fuck off back to Mordor.”

“Hobbits aren’t actually from Mordor, they’re from--“

Mickey’s been trying to hold in his laughter ever since the guy appeared but he can’t do it anymore. Maybe it’s the vodka, maybe it’s his leftover relief at not having to deal with Terry at the door, or maybe it’s how good it felt to make Kenyatta’s face bleed, but as Bilbo tries to explain where Hobbits are from he practically collapses in laughter over his shot glass and his entire body shakes with it. 

Mandy politely (over Mickey’s guffaws) tells Bilbo to leave again and he finally gets the message, riffles around the living room for his shoes, and exits out the front door. It takes Mickey about two more minutes to stop laughing. When he eventually does, wiping actual tears from his eyes, Mandy says dryly, “I haven’t seen you laugh that hard since we did nitrous together and _Blues Brothers_ came on TV.”

At the mention of that movie they both turn to each other and automatically quote the line, “I _hate_ Illinois Nazis” and smile. They used to quote that line all the time. It was their way of making fun of their father a long time ago without him realizing it. Like their small secret code.

Mickey chuckles a bit more and says, “Christ, you sure can pick ‘em, Mands. Fucking Bilbo.”

“Shut up,” she warns, but she’s smiling. Mickey pours another shot for each of them and they down these ones, too. Mickey glances at his sister. She’s sitting there smiling at nothing and he thinks about how much he loves her. He could never tell her this, of course, but it’s true. He remembers a conversation he had with Ian before Ian’s last big breakdown. Ian wanted Mickey to tell Mandy to stop settling for guys like Kenyatta who treated her like shit. He had seemed to think it might make a difference if Mandy heard from Mickey about how much he cared about her. About how concerned he was about her. He had promised Ian he would say something.

Mickey clears his throat, “Hey, Mands?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you.”

“That sounds fucking scary. What is it?”

“Ian wanted me to tell you, actually…”

“Spit it out.”

“You gotta stop screwing assholes like Kenyatta.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I broke up with him! Jesus Christ, how many fucking times do I have to say it? What the fuck do you think this morning was all about? And, anyway, it’s none of your fucking business. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with whoever the fuck I want. You and Ian are so fucking patriarchal I swear to god. It’s fucking insulting.”

Mickey runs his hand through his hair. Yeah, this is going about as well as he thought it would. He pours himself another shot and can’t remember if it’s his third or fourth. Not a good sign. He tries to think of what Ian would say, or what Ian wanted him to say, but the vodka is fogging up his brain a little.

“I’m not telling you what to do--“

“Aren’t you?”’

“I’m just saying you’re better than this shit. You’re better than Kenyatta. You’re better than Bilbo, too, actually. Like a million times better.”

She throws him a look that says, _whatever and fuck off_ so he raises his voice, “I mean it! You’re smart and you’re tough. You don’t know how cool you are.”

She laughs, “Cool? What are you, 10 years old? No, scratch that because even when you were 10 you never talked like such a dork. Don’t tell me you’re fucking drunk after four shots?”

“Fuck you. I’m trying to tell you something here. It’s important…Stop screwing jerks who hit you.”

“All right, first of all--I can live my own fucking life. Second of all, fuck you. And third of all…thanks I guess, for giving a shit. But still, fuck you and quit telling me what to do.”

“Okay, okay,” he says and then they’re pouring more shots.

An hour later, they’re really fucking drunk and laughing about a time Mickey had almost forgotten. It was when the Sox reached the World Series and Terry scored a bunch of tickets to one of the home games somehow. In fact, Terry had gotten 20 tickets--more than even their fucked-up extended family could use. On game day when they got to the stadium they had one extra ticket and their Uncle Ronnie kept suggesting, “We should scalp it, we’d make a fuckload!” but Terry said it was stupid to try to scalp it at the stadium. Ronnie insisted, though, and went down to the entrance with Colin to try to sell it. About ten minutes later Colin came up by himself, sheepishly, and said that Ronnie had been arrested after the first guy he asked to buy his ticket turned out to be an undercover cop. Ronnie ended up watching the game from jail, cause none of them wanted to miss it to go bail his ass.

It was mildly amusing at the time, how quickly Ronnie was arrested, but now, after seven shots they keep repeating, “The first fucking guy!” 

They quiet down slightly and out of nowhere Mandy says, “This is kinda nice, you know? Hanging out together.”

Mickey’s about to reflexively respond, “Whatever,” or something equally dismissive, but then he thinks, why? Why not say how he really feels?

“Yeah. It is.”

She hesitates and then expands in an unsure rush, “Since you’ve been with Ian you’re sort of like you were before--you know? When we were kids? Before Mom died? Like we would hang out all the time together?”

“Yeah, we were about eight years old, Mands. Our older brothers thought we were lame and our family was scary as shit so none of the neighborhood kids came near us. We didn’t really ‘hang out together,’ there was just no one else around.”

“No, but--don’t you know what I mean? Like after Mom died you kind of…went away. From me, I mean. I don’t know, maybe this is fucking stupid, but I always felt like before Mom died, we were close--and then suddenly she was gone and you started spending all your time by yourself, or with Iggy and Colin and…”

Even though he doesn’t acknowledge it, he knows exactly what she means. He hadn’t known he was gay as a little kid, but suspected he was different _somehow_. After his Mom died his father caught him crying one afternoon and said, “What are you, a fucking girl?” and this, combined with many other similar instances, scared Mickey. So much. There was something in him that was different and he wanted to kill it. So he tried to be more like his older brothers. He tried to be hard on the outside until he became hard on the inside. And for a while he thought it worked. Because he didn’t constantly smoke pot like Colin, he still had all his fucking brain cells. And because he didn’t have a hair trigger like Iggy, he never let his emotions blindside him. Since he constantly worried about his difference being discovered, he was careful. And smart. Eventually he became harder and tougher than all his older brothers. No one fucked with him. No one got the upper hand. Even though they were older, even though they were bigger, by the time he was fourteen his brothers and cousins asked him to solve problems when something had to be done. His father even came to rely on him. He had stupidly been proud of that once.

And Mandy? Well, she was still his little sister, of course. He’d fuck up anyone who fucked with her. But she _was_ a girl. If he spent too much time with her, he’d be done for. They still hung out every now and then, but there had once been a time, like when their mom was in the hospital, where they’d just sit together watching TV for hours and hours--dumb shit that Mandy wanted to watch to cheer herself up like _Aladdin_. And when Mandy started sniffling, he knew exactly why she was crying and he didn’t say anything, instead he’d tear off a paper towel to blow her nose on. Those days ended when Mickey decided they had to end. He couldn’t watch dumb-ass kids movies and let his sister cry on his shoulder anymore.

Because he’s semi-drunk he tells her, “Well, I’m here now. And I’ll always be here for you.”

“No, I know. I only wanted to say, it’s nice, is all. It’s nice to hang out with you again. Even though you’re still an asshole.”

“Fuck you,” He responds and she laughs a little awkwardly. The door opens then and Ian walks in, takes one look at them and the near-empty bottle of vodka, and says, “Shit.”

“Ian!” they both yell--partly because they’re glad to see him and partly because they can now forget about their too-honest conversation.

“You’re home!” Mandy exclaims, “We’ve missed you!”

“Hey, tough guy! You wanna drink?” Mickey asks.

Ian holds up the bottle to examine it, “Is there any left in here for a drink? How much have you two had?” Mandy says something but Mickey’s not listening cause he’s gazing at Ian who’s wearing a tight gray t-shirt and his arms look fucking amazing. Mickey says, “You’re really good looking, have I ever told you that?”

Ian was walking to the kitchen but when Mickey complements him he turns around and smiles lopsidedly. And it’s nice because Ian doesn’t really smile much lately. As Ian pulls two glasses down from a cabinet he says, “No, Mick, you’ve never told me that.”

“That’s fucking crazy! I never told you that?”

Ian’s filling up the glasses at the tap, “Nope, you haven’t.”

“Well, you are. You’re the best looking guy I’ve ever seen in real life. No fucking contest.”

“Thanks,” he says with a hint of laughter in his voice and then walks over to the table, placing one glass of water in front of Mickey and one by Mandy.

“Ian, did you get a glass of water for me?” Mandy asks, “You are so fucking sweet!”

Ian sits down with them, “I’ve never seen you two this drunk before.”

“We’re not drunk,” Mandy claims.

“Yeah, this is--what the fuck do the yuppies call it?” Mickey waves his arms around like he can catch the right word in the air and Ian smiles crookedly at him again, “Buzzed. This is buzzed.”

“Whatever you say,” Ian answers.

Mickey takes his shot glass, pours the dregs of the vodka bottle into it, and slides it over to Ian. He then picks up his water glass and states, “I’m making a toast.” Mandy lifts her glass of water and Ian lifts his shot, “To Bilbo!”

Mandy doubles over laughing without even taking a sip and Ian holds his glass perplexed, “What the fuck has been going on in this house this morning?”

They try to tell him everything but their words jumble over each other and Ian glances back and forth at them in half-smiling confusion. Ian gets a little buzzed himself from just one shot because of all the medication he’s on and they’re talking about nothing when Svetlana, Nikka, and the baby come home at 1 PM.

“What the fuck is this bullshit?” she shouts, “You drink all my vodka?” 

“We’ll buy you more, Svet!” Mandy promises.

“Hmph. You three are all light-weight pussies and you need coffee,” and she brewed them a pot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long (if anyone was waiting for it!) but I think the next one should be posted sooner (hopefully).


	12. From ORD to Canaryville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal thoughts in this chapter

After Ian received his first prescription it took two days before he swallowed even one pill. He kept telling himself that he didn’t need them. That he felt fine now, and since he cut out the Fairy Tail and returned to the boring stability of the Kash and Grab, he’d be fine forever. He was also running two hours every day and a really pathetic part of him whispered, “Maybe the Scientologists are right! Maybe with simple exercise and vitamins you _can_ keep your mind in balance!” But he knew this was Monica-level bullshit. 

He remembers once when he was a kid he, Monica, and Debbie were in the kitchen and his mom was making rhubarb cobbler and explaining why she stopped her meds. 

“You think they help for a while, kids, but then you realize it’s just the fucking system, you know? Doctors wanting to control you--and to control your brain! Wanting to make you feel powerless and fucking…fucking blank! Well, I’m sick of it. I’m taking up knitting because the mind/eye connection is what truly heals mental illness and I’ll buy a juicer and I’ll be fine. _We’ll_ be fine!”

He must’ve been about nine because in his memory Debs is 4 or 5 and playing with homemade play-doh on the kitchen table that Fiona made for her earlier. But even as a nine year old he knew his mother was full of shit. He had seen her, again and again, stop her medication and either bounce off the walls or crawl under a bed. He knew she needed her pills to function but he also knew she was never going to realize that. He thought he was so wise back then, at the great age of nine, so much smarter than his mother. But now he sympathizes with her. It’s too easy to know what other people should do to solve their problems. Alcoholics and drug addicts should check into rehab and get clean. Bi-polar people should swallow their fucking meds. Simple, right? But when it’s your own life there’s no answer that solves everything. Ian stares at a pill in his hand and wonders what it will do to him. To his fucking brain. Who will he be? Will he be better? Or worse? Or completely different? Will he recognize himself? And the scariest thought of all…what if these pills--these little capsules of last resort--don’t work? What’s he gonna do then?

After these two days of paralyzed fear, one morning he finally downs a pill before he can even think about it. Because he remembers Monica. Because there are people who need him now. Because there’s nothing else he can do. No other solution, no other last resort.

At first he’s no different. It isn’t until he’s been on pills for nearly a month that he realizes he feels fogged. Heavy. Like thirty down comforters are balanced on his chest, wrapping over his face and smothering him. Is this normal for bi-polar people on medication? Maybe he just has to get used to it? 

At least he can always roll out of bed. At least he can always struggle to work. He still has the ability to be aware of his actions, but everything he does, even his thoughts, moves slower and at the same time he can’t concentrate on anything. His attention flits around like a bumble bee. He can’t read books anymore; he can’t sit through a whole movie. Long conversations with his friends and family are impossible. It’s like he’s living on an airplane and the world is far away and always separated by distance, speed, and double-paned glass. 

One day Ian wakes up, leaves the house, and climbs aboard the L. He rides it North to the end of the Red line and back. Then he does the same route all over again. He’s like a homeless person in winter, trying to stave off the cold. He rides for six hours back and forth. Staring at the other passengers, staring out the window. Feeling cut adrift and welcoming the feeling. When the time comes when he has to return home because otherwise Mickey will worry, he steps off the train and onto the station platform and instantly grows weaker--his legs become like jelly, like he just donated five pints of blood. He has an insane wish to wait on that platform until the next train comes and ride forever.

So the L train becomes his new escape, his new drug. He rides it once or twice a week, whenever he has a day free from the Kash and Grab and Mickey, Mandy, or his family won’t miss him. He usually rides during the day, but occasionally he goes out at night, too, until one time, at about 10 PM, he’s propositioned by a creepy old guy with a handlebar mustache and a Panama hat. He’s not scared of the man, he’s scared that there’s a part of himself who wants to accept the creep’s offer. He’s practically longing to accept even knowing this weirdo could be a serial killer, and he’s an ugly serial killer at that. He’s tempted because he remembers all those times at the Fairy Tail--when his problems would disappear for a few moments and he’d be able to focus purely on another person’s skin. On a touch. All his problems would melt away. Sex with a stranger may be depressing cause it’s empty, but it’s freeing cause it’s empty, too. You never give a shit about letting strangers down. There is no love in their eyes. They don’t care about you and you don’t care about them. They won’t need you in the future, they only need a few moments of your time right here right now. The world shrinks to the present and it’s wonderful.

So he’s tempted. But luckily he hasn’t completely lost it yet, and he knows he can’t hurt Mickey again, so he has the presence of mind to turn the man down with a mumbled, “Sorry.” But it freaks him out how much he wanted to say yes. So he stops riding the L at night after that. 

He still rides during the day, though. He begins to take the route that goes to O’Hare. Back and forth. Eventually, he steps off at the O’Hare stop for an hour or so. He walks around the parking garage and into the tunnel underneath the airport that connects the baggage claim to long-term parking. In this tunnel there’s a guy always playing the saxophone for whatever spare change travellers might throw his way. Ian glides on the moving walkways listening to him. Sometimes, he tosses a dollar into the saxophone case. One time the saxophonist says to him, “Thanks, man, you got any requests?”

He doesn’t.

He thinks about all the places he’s never been. The places he’ll probably never see. That was one of the reasons he’d wanted to join the army--to get out of the South Side and see the world. The only time he ever left the state of Illinois was for his aborted basic training in nowhere Texas. 

Sometimes he imagines applying for a passport and getting the hell out of Chicago. Fly to Winnipeg. London. Brisbane. Someplace where they speak English and no one knows him. Somewhere he could get pills from universal health care and work in a restaurant washing dishes or something. Have meaningless sex with people who would never love him. Be lonely and alone. Walk the streets and ride the metro in another place night after night and never have anyone texting him to ask when he was coming home. To ask what he wanted on his pizza because Mandy was ordering in. To ask how he’s feeling. It kills him. Every day it kills him because he feels like shit but he can’t say that. How could he say, “You want to know how I feel? I feel like I hate being alive. Every day I wake up and I feel so tired--every fucking day. I feel like there’s no point. Just no point to any of this.” How do you say this to the people who love you? To the people who need you to be okay? 

He isn’t okay. He’s tired. He’s exhausted. He is sick, tired, black, blue, and plain worn out.

At night sometimes when he can’t sleep he listens to Mickey’s breathing. It’s not that he doesn’t love him. Ian loves him so much that sometimes it feels like Mickey is all that keeps him here. The one person he can’t leave, the one anchor tied to his foot. There’s no point to the world. There’s no point to this life that’s filled with endless series’ of small and giant sufferings. And there’s certainly no point to Ian--he’s worthless. He can’t even figure out how to exist normally like everyone else does. But Mickey loves him anyway. Even now, when Ian has cheated on him and has been grumpy and depressed for months, Mickey still smiles when he enters the house each night. A genuine happy and relaxed, “I’m glad you’re here,” smile. And Mickey smiles at exactly no one else like that.

There are times when Ian almost hates Mickey for being so perfect. For loving him so much. For keeping him here. He can’ kill himself, he can’t run away, but he doesn’t know what to do. Each day is almost more than he can bear.

*****

In late-August, the day before his eighteenth birthday he has nothing to do so like usual he rides the L towards O’Hare. It’s Sunday so the airport is crowded--in the saxophone player’s tunnel there are hundreds of people who’ve flown home after a week away somewhere. They have that sort of wrinkly, glazed look people always have after traveling a long way. The saxophonist is playing “Stardust” which was one of Monica’s favorite songs. She’d start singing:

And now the purple dusk of twilight time  
Steals across the meadows of my heart

And she’d be weeping by the end of this second line. Ian never knew the song had more verses until he was 12 or 13 because she never reached them. He also never knew why this song made her sad and he never wanted to ask. She’d only cry and tell some lame sob story about her parents or a guy who dumped her at a Ramones concert or something and he’d never be able to extricate himself from hours of self-pity.

But still, it’s a pretty song. It’s a sad song. It has self-conscious sadness you can sink into. He steps off the moving walkway and leans against a wall. Then he slumps down it until he’s sitting on the dirty floor. People walk by, pulling their stupid wheeled luggage, and glance curiously at him. Eventually the melody stops and the saxophone player takes a break. Ian decides to head back home to make it in time for dinner so he won’t have to answer questions about where’s he’s been. It was hard enough this morning when he told Mick he was working at the Kash and Grab and had to pray that Mickey wouldn’t drop by the store today.

On the train home he thinks about his mother. He wonders if she felt this horrible on lithium, too, and if so he feels bad for all the times he blamed her for not taking care of herself. 

He continues staring blankly out the train window and remembers some of Monica’s occasional bouts of unselfishness. But since there aren’t many of those, he quickly starts running through the more common memories of her uncaring flightiness. Like the last time he saw her. They had been crashing together at a skanky abandoned building. The place was filled with crazy people, feral cats, and cockroaches--even the occasional bat would fly in sometimes. It was so horrible that Ian made sure he was really high whenever he was “home” because he couldn’t deal with it sober. But he and Monica kind of had fun sometimes. They went out to clubs and got high together. She’d scope out hot guys for Ian and try to be his “wingwoman” (she was terrible at it, but she’d make him laugh sometimes).

The last time was when they went to a huge concert at a dairy farm somewhere in Wisconsin. They were dancing together to techno music when a weird 60-ish guy with dreadlocks started gyrating close to Monica. Eventually he whispered in her ear and Monica nodded and yelled to Ian, “Sweetie! I have to go fix this guy’s truck! He needs a mechanic! I’ll be back in 15 minutes!” and before Ian could reply she was gone. He waited for her for the rest of the night. The music ended. People left. The sun rose. Everyone was gone and he was still waiting in a muddy cow pasture filled with empty beer bottles. Eventually, around 8 AM he left. He walked to the nearest road and hitched a ride to Chicago with a car full of young Mormon missionaries who were all wearing the same cheap black suit. They had been nice guys though, actually. They barely mentioned god and let Ian lay his head back in a corner of the car and close his eyes as he pretended to fall asleep. 

He didn’t sleep. He thought about how he’d been abandoned by Monica yet again. For some stupid reason he thought it’d be different that time. Because they did drugs together and partied together and he didn’t expect her to be responsible anymore. But of course that didn’t matter. She’d always leave him because that’s what she did to everyone. She left. As soon as someone needed her, needed even the smallest bit of her, she had to escape.

So today, as he’s thinking these sad thoughts yet again, seven months later, (and lately he just dwells in sadness even though he annoys himself with his self-pity) at one point he turns away from the window and there, unbelievably, Monica _is_ , sitting across the aisle of the train car. He blinks because it _can’t_ be her, can it?

It’s a woman with matted blonde hair that hasn’t been brushed in days. She’s wearing a bright blue-green coat much too heavy for August. Black jeans. Worn down white Keds that are now gray with dirt. She’s slumped over and her face is hidden in her hands as she stares at the floor.

“Monica?” he asks. She doesn’t move. Maybe it’s not her.

“Mom?”

And the woman looks up and it _is_ his mother. Her eyes are red and puffy. She has slightly dilated pupils too, because she’s clearly high (no surprise).

“Ian! Sweetie, is that you?”

“Yeah. It’s me. Hi, Mom.”

She rushes over from her seat to the one next to his. She puts her arms around his shoulders and squeezes tightly, “Oh, it’s so good to see you! It’s been months!”

He doesn’t have the energy to smile or frown. To give her any sort of reaction. He just gazes at her face which always ages ten years from the last time he glimpsed it and yet, always remains the same. He tries to memorize this face--an old habit from when he was a kid and every time he saw his mother he wondered if it would be the last.

She pushes away a lock of his hair that fell in front of his eyes, “Are you okay, baby?” And for the first time in weeks he feels something, really feels something besides exhaustion. It’s anger. _Is he okay?_

“No, Monica, I am not fucking okay. Do you want to know what I have? What you fucking gave me? I’m bi-polar. Like you. A walking disaster. Like you. A fucked up, barely functioning mental case, like you.”

She doesn’t flinch at the words he’s hurtling at her, but something he said penetrates through her haze and she asks, “Bi-polar? Sweetie, what are you talking about? I’m not bi-polar.”

He blinks, “Of course you are. You have been my whole life. About four separate doctors have diagnosed you. You even told me you were once!”

“Oh, doctors! What do they know? They’ve told me I’m lots of things. Bi-polar. Depressed. Borderline personality. Schizophrenic. It’s all meaningless! Don’t worry. You shouldn’t worry.” And she pats him on the arm as if that settles the issue.

He doesn’t know why he’s arguing with a crazy woman who’s probably high on half a dozen things, but he can’t stop from refuting her. “They never told you shit about those other disorders. It was always bi-polar--you were always diagnosed bi-polar--“ But finally he quits talking because she’s clearly not listening. She’s smiling and humming a song. It’s not “Stardust” but “With a Little Help from My Friends”--kind of a mix of the Beatles’ original and the Joe Cocker slow version. She used to sing this one a lot when he was a kid, too. Her voice is shakier now than when he was younger, but Monica was always a good singer. Without even wanting to, he listens as she slowly traces out the melody and begins to hope she’ll keep singing until at least the end of the song. 

What would you do if I sang out of tune?  
Would you stand up and walk out on me?  
Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song  
And I’ll try not to sing out of key.

She takes long pauses between most of the words. She’s nearly forgotten the lyrics but they’re still there somewhere in her mind, amazingly, and it’s only that they take a second or two to arise out of her brain’s jumbled recesses. Her voice is thick and heavy, like each word is painful for her mouth to form, but she sounds beautiful to Ian.

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends  
Get high with a little help from my friends  
Gonna try with a little help from my friends…

He can feel himself about to cry and he looks away from her and out the grimy plastic L window. She continues to sing slowly, stumbling over the words sometimes.

What do I do when my love is away?  
Does it worry you to be alone?  
How do I feel by the end of the day?  
Are you sad because you’re on your own?

No,  
I get by with a little help from my friends  
Get high with a little help from my friends  
Oh, gonna try with a little help from my friends…

Her singing fades away and he’s really crying now. Neither of them says a word for a long moment and then he wipes his eyes and begins to speak to her. He knows she won’t understand, but he speaks because she’s sitting here now and this is as good a chance as any to tell her how he really feels. To tell _someone_ how he feels. To tell someone the truth.

“It’s not fair, Mom. It’s not fair you’re my mother. Cause you, Monica, are a lousy, terrible fucking mother. You _are_ bi-polar and also drug addict and just an all-around pathetic excuse for a person. And maybe you could’ve beaten the mental illness if you wanted to, but you sure as shit couldn’t have beaten that plus survived being a drug addict. You’re not strong enough. You were never strong enough.”

He pauses to inhale and continues, “It’s not fair you had me. You should never have had any children, let alone me. It’s not fair you got high on PCP and fucked your husband’s brother. I should never have been born. It’s not fair that I was. It’s not fair I was always the kid most like you and Frank hated me for it. It’s not fair that being the one most like you also means that I’m bi-polar. Because I am, Mom, I am. I’m bi-polar and unlike you I can’t lie about it. Or say it isn’t true. Because it is true.” 

His voice grows quieter, “It’s not fair that people love me. Or they love who I used to be. And every day I watch the love on their faces and I try to act like the person they’re expecting to see. But I’m tired, Mom. I’m so, so tired. And I love them all so much but I’m tired and I don’t know what to do. What should I do?”

He can’t continue, he’s sobbing too hard. He doesn’t expect any answer from her, but she puts her arms around his shoulder and says, “Shh, shh, baby. Sweetheart, shh, it’ll be okay,” and she holds him while he cries and cries.

He cries all the tears that are in him and he smears water and snot all over the shoulder of her bright blue-green coat. Eventually he just lays his head on this damp shoulder and rests. She pats his arm rhythmically and murmurs, “It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay, I promise. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Ian. I’m so sorry you’re hurting.”

Eventually he lifts his head. Wipes his eyes and nose. They sit almost companionably together for a moment until she smiles brightly and announces, “I’ve got to go to a polo match, do you wanna come?”

“A polo match?”

“Yeah, it’s in Oak Park. I’m meeting the most wonderful woman there. She’s a soup heiress!”

He doesn’t even have the strength to laugh, he only answers, “No thanks, Mom.” They sit in silence for a few more stops until she says, “Well, sweetie, unfortunately the next stop is mine.”

He nods. When the train slows down she stands up, “Goodbye honey. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay? See how you’re doing?” He doesn’t bother to let her know that he’s staying at Mickey’s because he knows she’ll never call. He also doesn’t mention that tomorrow is his birthday. She’s obviously forgotten (if she even knows what month it is now) and if he told her, she’d only forget again by the time midnight rolled around.

“Okay, Mom, I’ll talk to you later. And…thanks, you know, for being here today.”

“Anytime sweetie.”

He watches her step onto the platform and as the train speeds away she waves to him, smiling and yelling and jumping up and down. She looks deranged. Crazy. But that’s all right. She _is_ crazy. He hopes whatever the fuck this polo match really is, that she’ll be safe there. And for the first time he feels sad for her. Not angry at her, but sad _for_ her. He wishes life had been different for her, too. He wishes she had found some of the things she wanted. 

He exits the train at his stop and walks home. He’ll be eighteen tomorrow. He doesn’t want to end up like his mother--nearing fifty and living in a self-medicated fantasy world. Running from anyone who might love or need him. He doesn’t want to slit his wrists, either. He makes a decision to go back to the clinic tomorrow and get his meds altered. There is a part of him that whispers, “But what if that doesn’t work? And what if they want to check you into the hospital?” and he can’t tell if the thought of the hospital scares him or comforts him. If he’s running from it or towards it. But he’ll be 18. An adult. He can ride the L all day and exist in limbo or he can step back into the world, as sharp and painful as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole Monica singing “With a Little Help from My Friends” from _China Beach_ because I wanted her to sing something and I always associate that tune with Chloe Webb since seeing her sing it on that show. I thought it fit here, too, and I hope it works.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicidal thoughts in this chapter.

Ian is sitting in the Baha’i Temple in fucking Wilmette. It’s his birthday. He is 18. Eighteen. 

Although this day already feels ancient, it’s only 11 AM. He is alone in this beautiful building. He sits on one red-cushioned chair surrounded by dozens, maybe hundreds, of other empty chairs. The light streams in through huge windows that are perfectly clear--not even one tiny smudge on them. The Lake is close by and from certain windows you can see it out there. A dark, deep, troubled blue. The sky is a happier blue than the Lake. It’s a turquoise-jewelry blue broken only by three or four white clouds in the sky. Outside the temperature is perfect--breezy and 70s. Usually, his birthday falling in late August means sweltering heat and pudding-thick humidity but not today. Not this year. 

Ian came here after waking up early, careful not to disturb Mickey. He put on his running clothes. (Running was his cover story if Mickey woke up and asked him where he was headed.) He left the house at 6:30 and raced to the clinic which opened at 7:00. He stood at the end of a line of 15 people and by the time the clinic doors opened, there were another ten behind him. At seven a.m. they were each given a number and he sat in the waiting room for over an hour before his was called. His phone started vibrating at 7:36 with birthday texts. The first was from Fiona, “Happy Birthday, Ian! 18!!! Wow!!!!!!”

Waiting there, surrounded by crying children and adults with death-rattle coughs, he felt excruciatingly nervous. He hadn’t felt jittery in weeks, not since he started his medication, but right then he felt close to panic. He wanted to run and run. He was about to leave when the receptionist called his name.

He was taken to a different clinic room than last time and he paced around it while waiting for the doctor. This room had a framed, black and white photograph on the wall of a long isolated road stretching towards a mountain. It was probably supposed to be calming and inspirational but to Ian it looked bleak and meaningless. The road was grey and the mountain was white and there were no people or cars anywhere. Empty.

When the doctor stepped it, it was unbelievably the same nurse practitioner from last time: Gail Foschini. Ian had never seen the same physician-type person here twice before. He stopped pacing.

“Hello, Mr. Gallagher, what can I help you with today?” she asked.

“My meds. They’re not working.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel crappy. Not as bad as before, but not good.”

“Uh huh,” She walked to a metal cabinet filled with medical supplies and dug around until she produced several sheets of paper. She handed them to him along with a blue Bic pen.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Depression screening. Fill it out and answer honestly. Honesty is very important with this. I’ll be back in a few minutes to read it.”

As the door clicked shut he began to read. It was pages and pages of Xeroxed questions--smudged black letters set against cheap grey-ish paper. Each question was built on a scale of 1 to 5.

_Read the following statements and circle the most appropriate response:_

_I have trouble focusing._

_1) Never 2) Rarely 3) Sometimes 4) Often 5) All the time_

_I have trouble sleeping or I sleep more than 10 hours per day_

_1) Never 2) Rarely 3) Sometimes 4) Often 5) All the time_

_I drink or take non-prescription drugs to regulate my mood._

_1) Never 2) Rarely 3) Sometimes 4) Often 5) All the time_

_I derive no pleasure from activities I once enjoyed._

_1) Never 2) Rarely 3) Sometimes 4) Often 5) All the time_

_My moods negatively affect my relationships._

_1) Never 2) Rarely 3) Sometimes 4) Often 5) All the time_

_I feel sad._

_1) Never 2) Rarely 3) Sometimes 4) Often 5) All the time_

_I have thoughts of harming myself or taking my own life._

_1) Never 2) Rarely 3) Sometimes 4) Often 5) All the time_

And on and on it went. He tried not to think about it too hard and answered honestly for most of the questions but when he arrived at the one about harming himself or having suicidal thoughts he didn’t know what to do. What was the truth? “Often”? “Sometimes”? Would that make him sound suicidal? Would they shove him in the hospital? If he said “never” would that seem like a blatant lie? Doesn’t everyone think about it at least once or twice?

He circled “rarely.”

When Ms. Foschini reentered he handed her the papers and she sat for a long time reading his answers. Eventually she raised her eyes and looked directly at him, her gaze filled with frank and impersonal sympathy.

“It seems you’re depressed, Ian.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“And the meds aren’t helping?”

“No.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know if there’s anything I can do for you,” she said as if that settled the issue. As if that settled everything.

“You’re a doctor,” he said and his heart began to race because if she couldn’t help him, what was he going to do?

“Nurse practitioner. And my specialty is actually in dermatology. I told you before that I know very little about psychiatry.”

“So what? You do nothing and I leave? I walk out of here and feel like shit for the rest of my life?”

“No, of course not. You need help, Ian. You need to see a psychiatrist--I’ll write down more referrals, but honestly, I’m concerned about you. I think that it might be a good idea if you checked into a hospital now--today. I think you’re not doing so well, am I right?”

“I’m fine. I’m depressed, but I’m not gonna off myself,” as soon as the words were out of his mouth he mentally cursed. _Don’t fucking bring up killing yourself, you dumb shit._

After his reference to suicide, Gail Foschini frowned, “I don’t think you would’ve come in here today if you were suffering from low-grade depression. You seem like the type who’d only come in if you were in trouble.”

“Well, I’m not and you don’t know me so...”

“I’m not saying this to piss you off--and you’re right I don’t know you--but if you are in trouble then you need to get help. That’s why you came here today. Listen to the part of yourself that knows you need help and go get it. You should see a psychiatrist--but even if you did go and they did prescribe you something today--and even if it’s the exact right medication at the exact right dose, it will still take weeks before it helps you. Maybe you should consider the hospital--”

He sighed and cut her off, “So you’re not changing my meds?”

“No. You need to visit someone who knows this inside and out.” She wrote on her doctor’s pad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to him.

“Here are the names and numbers of a few psychiatrists--the one at the top works at Cook County in the psych ward. Call one of them. Please.” He stared at the names of three doctors, seeing only her scrawled, practically illegible handwriting and not actually taking in any of the names. She stood and said, “Ian--take care of yourself, okay?” And then she left.

He sat in the ugly room for a few minutes staring at the names she wrote down and ignoring his phone that kept vibrating with happy birthday texts. Eventually a nurse came and kicked him out. He walked down the street aimlessly. He didn’t want to go home. The thought of HOSPITAL loomed in his thoughts. He felt like one of those people who’d been convicted of a crime and then they have to turn themselves in to jail. The last few days of their freedom ruined by the knowledge that they’re heading for unknown suffering. Ed Norton in the _25th Hour_. Except he isn’t trapped by a drug conviction, instead he is trapped by everything that makes him who he is. His family. His friends. His boyfriend. His DNA. His memories. His mind. Every part of himself--each thing that he used to love or even just accept--was now conspiring to destroy him.

So that was how he had the bright idea to travel to Wilmette. He was standing on the L platform debating where to go, which train to take--should he choose the usual destination of O’Hare? Or someplace else? He felt like he needed something more drastic--like a genie in a bottle. Some mystical place that could solve his problems for him. Some magic solution. And then it came to him:

A long, long time ago--well, more like a year--Ned had taken him to dinner at a fancy bistro in Glencoe and then they walked to the beach. Ian had never been to the beach this far north before and as he looked around, he saw a few miles down the shore this huge white domed building. It was beautiful.

“What’s that?” he asked Ned, pointing to it.

“What? Oh, _that_? C’mon, you really don’t know what that is?”

Ian shook his head.

“That’s the Baha’i Temple. It’s always been there--it’s right by this shopping center in Wilmette that has a great little Spanish Tapas restaurant--we’ll have to go sometime. When I drive you home tonight, I’ll take Sheridan Road so you can see it up close.”

Ned was true to his word and as his Mercedes wound around Sheridan, the temple eventually came into view. It was June, about 8:30, and the sun was setting, making the ivory white of the building look dusky and orange. It was so tall and so perfect that Ian thought it was the most beautiful building he had ever seen. Like if the Taj Mahal were suddenly plunked down in Chicagoland.

He had wanted to visit it ever since. And this morning he had some weird idea that if he could get to it, and finally walk inside, that he’d find all the answers. That God would speak to him (or some shit).

So he took the L downtown and walked to North Western Station to ride the Metra to Wilmette. His phone kept going off with texts and phone calls and he didn’t answer any of them, except for one of Mickey’s that asked “Whre the FUCK R U? its YR FUCKING BDAY JACKASS!” which made him smile even through his hopelessness and he replied, “Went for a run and wanted to see the Lake. Be back soon.” After stepping off the train he walked the one mile to the Temple near the shore of Lake Michigan. 

On foot, the Baha’i temple was surrounded by landscaping and circular paths and he had a hard time figuring out where the public entrance was, but eventually a female staff member saw his confusion and pointed him in the right direction.

When he entered the temple, he saw a fairly plain, domed ceilinged room with lots of red chairs. No one was in the place except him. He sat on a chair and tried to open his mind to _something_ : God. The universe. Fate. Whatever. But he heard nothing. The place is beautiful but it isn’t as beautiful as he thought it would be. That would’ve been impossible, actually, because he imagined it to be so beautiful that it would solve everything. Fix him. Like God would actually live here. Ridiculous. 

So now what? He laughs to himself. If his life were a movie, there’d be some wise janitor cleaning the building and he’d stop and ask Ian about his troubles and give him some sage advice. But there’s no one. His phone is still going crazy. It’s nearly noon by now and he has to head back.

On his return trip, walking through the well-manicured streets of Wilmette filled with nothing but luxury cars and too-thin women rushing to yoga classes, he sees the shopping center Ned mentioned and the tapas restaurant which is called Alhambra. He wonders what would happen if he called Ned and asked him out to dinner. Ned would probably say sure, even given how badly Ian had left things. Because Ned didn’t care. Nothing made a dent in him. He’d say yes because they could have some fun for an evening or two. Some conversation. Some wine. Some sex. Ian doesn’t wish he were still with Ned, he wishes he were _like_ Ned. Bobbing along on the surface of life, protected by a history of wealth and a perennial blasé attitude. Maybe that was the secret to contentment--to not care deeply about anyone and to have no one care deeply about you.

In contrast, Ian feels like an open wound. Constantly sad. Constantly worried. He has about ten people who depend on him in some way. People who need him to be in the world. And he loves them all. What would happen to Mickey if Ian said he needed to enter the hospital? Ian knows more than anything that this is something Mickey could not handle. And Mickey can handle almost _anything_ else. Mickey grew up with Terry Milkovich as a father and somehow not only survived, but was still intact. Mickey found a way to be himself even when his father had tried to destroy who he was for years. Ian often felt that nobody but Mickey could’ve managed that. Mickey could handle Terry’s brutality. And Mickey could handle getting sexually assaulted. And having a kid he didn’t want. And dealing with money problems, and bitchy prostitutes, and violent johns, and Kenyatta, and almost all of Ian’s bi-polar shit--but Mickey could not let him go. Not to the hospital. And Ian doesn’t know what to do.

He waits on the platform at the immaculately clean Wilmette train station. The other people are late commuters going in to the city for the afternoon. They look at their watches and stare at their smart phone screens. There’s some rich, Mitt Romney-looking asshole talking loudly on his phone about an acquaintance:

“Do you remember my friend Richard Carver? Well, he lost four million in 08-09. And he was devastated. _Devastated_. He got it all back later, of course, but still--it was pretty tough for a while--”

Ian laughs internally at the relative meaning “devastated” can have depending on who you are. And then he walks closer to the platform edge to see if he can see the train coming. It isn’t there, and really it couldn’t possibly be there (it’s still at least 5 minutes away) but as he stands on the yellow plastic edge, he glances down at the track--the drop from the platform a foot away--and he starts to think about what it would be like to jump off the platform at the last second--just as the train swept into the station. There’d be a lot of blood, of course. All these people would have their day ruined. The train conductor would probably feel horrible. They’d have to close the station for hours as they cleaned up Ian’s body. All the other trains arriving or leaving Wilmette would be delayed and delayed--it would ruin almost the whole days’ commute. But Ian wouldn’t care-- _he’d_ be dead. All his problems solved.

He keeps seeing this same vision over and over in his mind--him jumping on the tracks and the train rushing by, grinding him to pulp. When the train does finally appear down the line in the distance he has to force himself to back away--eight feet from the edge and breathes a sigh of relief when the train sweeps in and he’s still safe and sound on the platform. It’s like he avoided some close-call accident instead of a crisis entirely constructed by himself.

As he boards the Metra train he finally has the shining bright epiphany he sought at the Baha’I Temple. It’s not a spiritual one--but it’s a truthful revelation all the same. He has to call one of those psychiatrists if he wants to live. And he probably might have to go to the hospital, too. Because surprisingly, as he stares at the North Shore of Chicago whizzing by, at the tall leafy trees and pretty shops of Wilmette, he realizes he does want to live. He wants to go on. He wants to return to school and then go on to college and he wants to laugh with Mandy and he wants to watch Yevgeny grow up and he wants to help Carl and Debbie deal with all their teenage bullshit and, more than anything, he wants to be with Mickey. He wants to fall asleep next to him every night and kiss him stupid whenever he has the chance. He wants to watch Mickey pretend to be grumpy even when the corners of his mouth are betraying him by quirking upwards. 

These should be positive thoughts but he keeps checking them with worries. How the fuck is he going to have all this? What if his illness stops him? What if he’s too weak, like Monica? Or what if the sickness is just too strong? What if he breaks Mickey’s heart by going to the hospital? What if the hospital can’t help him? What if, what if.

He reaches the Milkovich house at 2 PM. Only Nikka is home and she’s baking a cake and there are streamers up everywhere. He didn’t know they were having a party, but he should’ve guessed. Nikka gives him a big hug and says Happy Birthday. He hangs out with her the rest of the afternoon, helping to frost the cake (it’s yellow cake with chocolate buttercream frosting, his favorite, Mickey must’ve told her). And slowly people start showing up. Lip, Fiona, Mandy, Kev and V and the twins, Svetlana and Yevgeny, Debbie, Carl, Liam, Sheila, Sammi and her weird son who Ian guesses is his nephew (bizarre), a few of Carl’s juvenile delinquent friends, a few pathetic slutty-looking girls that Debbie hangs out with, and finally, Mickey. He comes in with Colin and Iggy and they’re carrying bags filled with Italian beef sandwiches and French fries from Johnny O’s.

When Mickey does anything sweet, he often has a hard time looking Ian in the eye, so Ian isn’t hurt or surprised when Mickey busies himself with the food and doesn’t talk to Ian for a while. Everyone eats and drinks and dances. 

There are presents. Fiona gives him a day planner because she heard he was going back to school and is thrilled. Lip slips him a few joints. Debbie has a batch of toffee cookies for him and Carl punches Ian hard on the shoulder (“Ow! Jesus, Carl!”) and shouts, “Happy Birthday, dumb ass!” Kev and V present him with a coupon for one free drink at the Alibi (“Just _one_ ”). Mandy has a gift certificate for dinner for two at a nice restaurant downtown (“I thought you two assholes could have a dork-ass ‘date’ night”) which really touches him. Svetlana jokingly offers him a free hand job (at least, Ian hopes she’s joking) and Nikka gives him a bouquet of sunflowers which puzzles him until Mandy whispers in his ear that once when he was manic he went on and on about how wonderful sunflowers were and how they were his favorite flower. He doesn’t really remember this, but it’s a nice thought all the same and the flowers are pretty. They place them in an empty jar on top of the Milkovich kitchen table. Their homey brightness seemingly out of place in the grey jumble of Milkovich detritus which fills the rest of the house. 

Ian keeps waiting for Mickey to give him his present but nothing happens. Everyone else is kind of waiting for it, too, and there’s this awkward pause after all the gifts are given as they wait. Then, realizing nothing is forthcoming, Fiona shouts “Time for cake!” and they all gorge themselves on cake and ice cream. 

There’s more drinking and dancing. The music is loud and when Nikka breaks out her trumpet to play along with Mary J. Blige’s “Family Affair” everyone is so drunk and/or high that no one minds, they only laugh. 

Ian doesn’t dance much. He tries to look like he’s having a good time, but he feels like he’s watching his family and friends from a very far distance. He can’t find Mickey and he exits to check to see if Mick is on the front steps. Mickey isn’t there, but Mandy is, she’s sitting on the top step and smoking a cigarette. Ian closes the door and sits next to her.

“Can I have one of those?” he asks.

She sighs dramatically but replies, “Since it’s your fucking birthday,” and hands him her nearly empty pack and lighter. He takes a Marlboro and lights it. Inhales deeply. He hasn’t had a cigarette in a long time--months probably--and god does it feel good to suck some carcinogenic smoke into his body. For some reason his lungs always feel light and happy (if that’s even possible) whenever he smokes. Like the smoke is traveling past each lung cell and gently patting them all on the back. For the first time today he begins to feel almost calm. He leans back against the steps. He and Mandy smoke in silence for a few moments and the music plays from inside the house and the streetlights hum and a dog barks a few houses down.

After a little while Mandy asks, “You enjoying your party?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s great.”

“Don’t sound so fucking enthusiastic,” she laughs.

“Sorry. It _is_ great. It’s just…I’m not having such a good day. I always get down on my birthday.”

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Eventually she stubs her cigarette butt on the step and asks, “Are you okay, Ian? Like, really okay?”

He exhales some smoke in a nervous laugh, “Okay? Why wouldn’t I be?”

She shrugs, “The better question is why _would_ you be? With all the shit we’ve had to deal with the weirder thing is that any of us are ever okay.”

Mandy hardly ever talks like this. He’s so used to her blowing off the most horrific aspects of her life that he doesn’t know what to say at first. But then he stutters, “Uh, do you, do you want to talk about it? Like about Kenyatta or your d--“

She cuts him off before he can even finish the word “dad” and says sharply, “Who gives a shit about me?--I’m fine--this is about you. How are you doing? Cause you’re hardly ever home and you have this pained smile on your face most of the time like it kills you to even exist.”

And he’d thought he’d been so good at pretending. There went that small comfort. But in another way it was heartening to know she’d noticed and cared. Growing up, except for Lip, no one usually noted his moods. He never wanted to add to the family’s burden so if he was feeling crappy, or if something bad happened at school, he just pretended it was all fine. Lip could usually tell, though, and would often give him a raised eyebrow as if to say “what’s wrong?” but that was about it. It was both good and bad to live at the Milkoviches in that regard--he was seen. Mickey and Mandy (and sometimes even Nikka and Svetlana) were constantly trying to size him up and make sure he was okay. He wasn’t used to so much attention and it was both exhilarating and smothering.

He takes a deep breath, “You know what? I feel awful, Mandy. I feel like shit. I was at a train station today and a part of me wanted to jump in front of the fucking train--“

“Ian--“

He waves his hand in a dismissive motion, “I’m not going to do _that_ , obviously, so don’t worry,” he reassures her but a part of himself also knows that it might be an empty promise: he has no idea what he will do. No idea what’s in the cards. Everything has been going to shit for months and he doesn’t trust himself anymore.

“I do worry. Cause you’re my best friend and you’re in trouble.”

“I’m not in _trouble_ \--“ he starts to say but he stops because what is he even denying? It’s clear what the truth is.

“Why don’t you go back to the clinic? Talk to the doctor--“

“I did go. I went today. There’s nothing they could do, they just gave me the names of some shrinks and told me maybe I’d have to check myself in to the hospital.”

At the mention of ‘hospital’ they both fall silent. He’s not sure what Mandy thinks about it, but to Ian checking into a mental hospital always meant that you were crazy. Irrevocably crazy. Permanently damaged. The only people he’d ever known who entered it were his mother (who never ever got better) and a girl from school, Tracey Schwartz, who slashed her wrists when her idiot boyfriend, Duane, dumped her. She was in class one day, gone the next, and she’d never come back. She was only in the hospital for seven days but afterwards her parents packed her off to some relative’s house in Minnesota for her to recover far away from Duane. The people she still kept in touch with at school said she always sounded stoned on the phone and she still cried about Duane all the time. She definitely wasn’t sane again.

“If that’s what you have to do, then that’s what you have to do, right?” Mandy’s trying to sound encouraging but her voice has this catch in it that makes Ian put his arm around her shoulders. She leans her head against him and he hears her sniffling.

After a while he asks, “Mandy, what do think will happen to Mickey if I go into the hospital?”

“He’ll be fine.”

“No, seriously, will he be okay?”

“What do you think? He’ll be upset--we’ll all be upset--but he’ll deal. He’s been through way worse believe me.”

“That’s the thing, though--I don’t want to put him through “way worse.” He could see Mickey standing in his bedroom, looking like his whole world was collapsing as Ian told him he was joining the army. He could see Terry pummeling the shit out of him until Mickey lost consciousness on that old, stained couch. He could hear Mickey’s voice, rough around the edges and shaky, whenever the mention of his mother came up. Ian didn’t want to add to that. One more horrible thing. 

“How did your mom die?” he asks Mandy, and he wishes he hadn’t just said it out of the blue like that because she draws away from him and mumbles, “Cancer. Ovarian cancer,” and then abruptly stands and says “I’ve got to get another fucking drink,” and goes back in the house.

Ian slides his hands through his hair and sits by himself for another twenty minutes until Lip finds him and drags him back to the party. Mandy is in the corner doing shots and later she gets high with Lip and they’re quickly all over each other in that desperate gropey way they always used to have. Ian watches her and sees the sadness in her loud laughs and in the way she’s leaning against Lip like he’s the only thing propping her up. He knows he’s responsible for this but he doesn’t know how to stop it.

*****

Fiona is the first to leave because she still has a probation curfew. Eventually everyone else stumbles home. The Gallaghers. The Balls. Svetlana and Nikka throw away all the paper plates and garbage and go to their room. Mandy and Lip disappeared to her room long ago. Iggy and Colin are high and watching a _Family Feud_ rerun on the Game Show Network. It’s just him and Mickey now, sitting at their table with the remains of the cake.

“Thanks for the party, Mick.”

“Eh, it was mostly Nikka and Svetlana’s idea.”

Ian smiles because they both know that’s not true. 

“I, uh, I got you a thing but I didn’t want to give it to you, you know, in front of everyone. It’s…well, come here,” and he walks away into their bedroom. Ian follows.

Mickey pulls a shopping bag out from under their bed and roots around in it for a second until he pulls out a clumsily wrapped present. There’s no bow or ribbon, it’s just a box covered with white and gold “Happy Birthday” wrapping paper and tons of scotch tape. As Mickey holds it out to him, Ian just stares at it. Unable to take it.

“Here,” Mickey eventually says, shoving the gift into his hands. Ian continues to be paralyzed.

“Aren’t you gonna open it? How’re you gonna know how crappy it is unless you open it?”

“Shut up. It won’t be crappy,” Ian says eventually and then he sits on their bed and tears into it. As the wrapping paper falls away, he sees it’s a beautiful Nikon SLR camera. Brand new and in its original box.

“Fuck off,” Ian whispers, “Did you buy this for me?” It probably cost at least $500.

“Sort of. I got a good deal on it cause it fell off a truck,” Mickey jokes and Ian laughs. 

“You like it? You take so many fucking pictures with your shitty phone that I thought maybe you’d want something nicer. But if you don’t, it’s no big deal, I could-“

“I love it. It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”

Mickey scoffs, “C’mon, that geriatric douchebag gave you tons of stuff better than this. Christ, even Kash did.”

Ian doesn’t know how to explain it to him. That throwing money around, and towards, other people meant nothing to Ned. And that Kash had been trying to bind Ian to him with presents which were more like compensations for the lameness of their relationship. But Mickey thinking about what Ian would love and figuring out how to get it for him, and spending at least a few hundred dollars on it--money he didn’t really have--all of that was worth more than Ned or Kash could ever spend in their whole lives. 

Ian can only say, “No, they didn’t. They never gave me anything as nice as this.”

He pulls Mickey to him and kisses him long and slow. His hands moving through Mickey’s hair because it always makes Mick sigh a little. Mickey’s hands running lightly over Ian’s neck cause it always makes Ian shiver slightly. How is it possible to love somebody this much and still feel like you’re drowning? Sinking further under the water a little bit more each day?

They haven’t had sex in weeks and Ian knows that it won’t be possible tonight, either, but he still wants to be close to Mickey so he unbuttons his jeans sinks to his knees when Mickey says, “Wait a minute, what about you?”

“I can’t--Just let me--I want to do this for you--“

“But it’s your fucking birthday--”

“It’s what I want,” he snaps so Mickey doesn’t need any further encouragement. Ian takes his time, going slow at first, doing everything he knows Mickey loves with a steady hand and a curling tongue. A warm mouth. Mickey once said that was all he was and it hurt at the time, even though he knew Mickey hadn’t really meant it. But now he thinks all of us take what warmth we can get. And give out what warmth we can manage.

It’s ridiculous to get sentimental about a blow job, but Ian tries to put everything he can into this one. To communicate to Mickey everything he can’t say. Because a part of him thinks this might be the last one. The last time they’re together like this. 

Mickey tugs at his hair right before he comes and Ian pulls away just as Mickey gets jizz all over his shirt.

“Shit. Sorry.”

Ian grins, takes off his shirt and throws it into a corner. He rolls onto the bed with Mickey and they lay there, curled up together. The house is silent except for the low murmur of the TV in the other room. Ian absently runs his hands through Mickey’s hair.

For some reason, even though he _knows_ it’s a terrible idea, he asks Mickey the same question he asked Mandy earlier in the evening. He just blurts it again, ruining the nice quiet moment they were having.

“Mick, how did your mom die?”

Mickey pulls away a little and Ian can feel him stare in astonishment at Ian’s face, “Why the fuck are you talking about her now?”

“I don’t know, I don't know. We don’t have to. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s…I don’t like to think about her.”

“Sure. Okay. It’s just that she was a big part of your life and you hardly ever mention her.”

“She died and I was a kid. I barely remember her.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, if Monica disappeared when you were 8 or 9 and had never come back--what would you even remember about her?”

Mickey is asking this sort of combatively but Ian takes the time to really think about it and then answers, “Well, I think I’d remember a lot. I’d remember how she sang when she was chopping vegetables. I’d remember how she always told my dad to cool it when he was giving me a hard time. I’d remember how once she came home with this old dual tape recorder she got a garage sale and she gave it to me along with a bunch of old cassette tapes--80s stuff--Prince, Bruce Springsteen, the Cars--and I’d pretend I was a DJ and make pathetic tapes of a radio show, recording the announcements into this microphone. I even made up the dumb commercials to go in all the ad breaks. She got such a kick out of that. She told me I’d be on XRT someday…” He trails off and then decides to tell Mickey something, “I actually saw my mom yesterday.”

“What? Fucking Monica?”

“Yeah, on the L.”

“Did anything bad happen?”

“Nah, we talked for a while.”

“What the fuck was that like?”

“Crazy. But I’m crazy too, now, so it was kind of nice.”

“You’re not crazy.”

Ian doesn’t say anything. He tangles their fingers together and lifts Mickey’s hand up in the moonlight. He loves Mickey’s hands. They’re beautiful and almost elegant. A pianists’ hands--and the FUCK U-UP tattoos on those elegant fingers always make Ian smile.

“Mandy told me your mom died of cancer.”

“Fuck, are we talking about this again?”

“Was she in the hospital for a long time?”

“No.”

Mickey doesn’t add anything to that for a while, but eventually he pulls out of Ian’s grasp and shifts over in the bed until they’re not touching anymore. He inhales raggedly and then says, “She wasn’t sick for long. Or maybe she was but we didn’t know about it. No one knew about it. Or cared. She was tired and in pain for months but she never went to a doctor. Sometimes she wouldn’t be able to make dinner or whatever and my dad would yell at her, hit her--say she was making excuses for herself. Then one day when we were at school she went to the store and collapsed. The ambulance took her to the hospital and she was so far gone with it. It had spread everywhere. She never left the fucking hospital. She died six weeks later.”

“Shit, Mickey. That’s horrible.”

He shrugs but his voice sounds thick, “So she died--who cares? It was probably better for her, she got to leave this shithole for good.”

“Not better for you, though.”

“Like I fucking needed her? She was a fucking problem. She was always drinking too much--burning the fucking macaroni and cheese, sleeping on the couch all day. And me and Mandy were her fucking favorites which was alright for Mandy but for me it meant that my dad smacked me around and called me a momma’s boy and she couldn’t do shit to protect me. She just kept on making Jell-O and ruffling my hair and asking me how my fucking day was--“ 

“She loved you.”

“What the fuck does that matter? It would’ve been easier if she hadn’t.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t--I wouldn’t have given a shit--“ but he doesn’t continue. He’s wiping tears out of his eyes with his sleeve and Ian shifts over to him and holds him. Mickey makes a half-hearted effort to push Ian away, but Ian doesn’t budge. He lays there for a while as Mickey’s chest rises and falls.

“It’s your fucking fault for bringing her up.”

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s only cause sometimes I feel like there’s all this stuff we’re scared of and we never talk about it.”

“I’m not scared of my mom dying--that shit’s in the past.”

“I think you might be scared I’m gonna leave you. Like she did.”

Mickey huffs. And Ian continues, “I lied today. I didn’t go for a run. I went to the clinic.”

Mickey says nothing.

“My meds aren’t working so great. I feel so shitty, Mickey. All the time. And I don’t know what to do about it. And I know I haven’t told you because I didn’t want you to worry, but I feel this tired blank horribleness. Like all the fucking time. And I have these horrible fucking miserable thoughts. So I went to the clinic and the nurse said there’s nothing she can do. And that I have to go to a psychiatrist, but it’d be better if I went to the hospital.”

Mickey’s still quiet.

“I think I need to go, Mick. I don’t want to leave you but I think I have to. I think I need to go.”

You’re gonna have to let me go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken so long.


	14. Itasca

When he wakes up the next morning, Ian isn’t there. Mickey feels sluggish and there’s a thrumming behind his eyes--like he has a hangover but he only had a few beers the night before so it can’t be that. It takes him a moment to recognize what it is exactly--it’s the shaky feeling he used to get when his dad was primed to go off. It’s the knowledge that there’s a live grenade in the room and Mickey doesn’t know how to disarm it. The only real time Mickey ever felt afraid was in those moments _before_ Terry went berserk. The actuality was horrible but it wasn’t frightening--it was just pain that could be suffered through. Tears that could be blinked back. But fear came before because he always wondered if this would be the time his dad would finally figure how to break him--maybe even kill him--if this would be the time he wouldn’t live through it.

It’s how he feels now, but about Ian. Will he lose Ian? He isn’t sure he could survive that. 

Mickey pulls the soft, threadbare sheets over his head. Although he has no idea where Ian can be, he doesn’t have the strength to get up, check his phone, and try to find him. He remembers what Ian said last night in the dark before they went to sleep. How Mickey would have to let him go--and Mickey isn’t sure what that means. He’s terrified of what that might mean. So he rolls over and falls back asleep, alone. 

*****

Before Ian had arrived in his life, Mickey was lonely and angry all the time, but he could take it. He didn’t know what he was missing back then. And suddenly there was someone who always said yes to him. With everything Mickey asked of him (without even really asking) Ian gave him a shrug and a smile that meant, “Okay, Sure.” At first it was sex. Ian never sent him away. And then it was shooting the shit and hanging out. And then it was choosing Mickey instead of Kash ‘Shit-for-Brains’ Karib, or that fucking gross geriatric. Ian always said, yes, yes, yes. _You want this? Well, it’s already yours._ I’m _yours_. 

Mickey can deal with Ian not leaving the bed for weeks. He can deal with Ian cheating on him. He can deal with Ian being grouchy all the time and never in the mood for sex. He can deal with his crazy bread-making and the laughter that’s too loud and too long. He can deal with crying. He can deal with almost anything and he can deal with worse than that, but what he’s scared of is Ian going away. Even in his mind he skirts around the word “dying”. But it’s there. It’s always there like white noise. It beats in time with his heart, this fear. _You’re gonna lose him. You’ll lose him. You’ll lose_.

*****

Mickey wakes up hours later because Ian’s shaking his shoulder and saying, “Hey, sleepyhead, it’s past noon, get up.”

He blinks himself awake. The late August sunlight is streaming in and Ian is sitting cross-legged on the bed, smiling, and fully dressed.

“Where’ve you been?” Mickey grumbles as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Went for a run and then Fiona texted me cause she had to work the breakfast shift so I took Yev over there and watched him and Liam for a few hours.”

“You could’ve let me know where you were.”

“I sent you a text! And you couldn’t have been that worried since you slept the day away.”

Mickey sits up and shrugs. He looks at Ian who’s meeting his glance with a unique Ian expression of irritation and affection. It’s the sort of look that says ‘you annoy the shit out of me, but I love you anyway.” It’s a look they often share together because it means they know one another better than anyone--all their flaws and fuck-ups--and they still aren’t gonna leave. Not ever. Normally he loves seeing that look on Ian’s face but today it disturbs him.

Mickey picks at a hole in the sheet and mutters, “So, uh, about what you said last night?”

“Yeah?” Ian asks like he has no idea what Mickey’s talking about.

“You okay?”

”Yeah, sure.”

Mickey now glances up from the blanket to meet Ian’s eyes, “Last night you said you felt like shit all the time. You said you might have to go to the hospital. What the fuck happened to that?”

“Oh, I was just having a bad day. I always hate my birthday--but I feel good today. I woke up and I felt better than I have in a really long time. I think it’s actually just me feeling ‘normal’ but normal now feels like I’m fucking Superman. It made me realize that most people feel like this all the time!--and they should be accomplishing great fucking feats. I mean, I feel like I could solve world hunger or something. Hey, you want to go to IHOP with me? I feel like pancakes.”

Mickey stares at him. As much as he likes the thought of Ian being back to normal--he knows this isn’t it. He and Ian have been pretending for months now and he can’t do it anymore. But to confront him--to tell him he needs help and has to see a real psychiatrist or maybe even go to the fucking hospital--he can’t do that either. He doesn’t know what to do. So he only mumbles, “I don’t want to go to fucking IHOP.”

Ian shrugs, “Suit yourself,” and walks out the room. Mickey drags the sheets back over his head and lies there the rest of the day. He hears the front door opening and slamming. He hears Russian voices chattering away. He hears the baby crying and Svetlana singing one of her Russian lullabies off-key. He hears Ian’s voice and then the door slams again and there’s only silence.

He must’ve fallen back asleep because he’s woken by a hard shove and as he shouts, “Ow, fuck!” and opens his eyes, there is Mandy looming over him. She’s dressed head to toe in pink magenta, has her hair in a pink headband, and looks like she fell out of the movie _Grease_.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asks as she shoves him again.

“What does it look like? Sleeping. Jesus, what the fuck are you wearing?”

“It’s for work--it’s fifties night at the diner. Do you know that it’s 4:30? I’m about to leave and you’re still sleeping.”

“So?”

“So? So? Are you fucking kidding me? Have you seen Ian today?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s like before--this feels like the beginning of something bad. And you can’t fucking fall apart. You can’t sleep all day. You just can’t.”

Mickey sighs. He sits up in bed and reaches for his Marlboros and his Zippo. He lights a cigarette, inhales, exhales, “You tell me what I should do, then. Cause I got no fucking idea.”

Mandy sits next to him on the bed. “We need to talk to him. Together. Tell him he needs to see a doctor.”

“And what if he won’t? One day he wants to see a shrink, the next day he doesn’t. And fuck, I can’t really blame him. I don’t know why you think a doctor’s going to solve all this shit anyway.”

“Maybe it won’t help, but maybe it will. I’ve got this friend who’s a nurse--”

“Since when do you know a nurse?”

“Let me finish. I know this nurse and she thinks Ian really needs to see someone and she was telling me that they’ve made a lotta strides in mental health care in the past few decades--“

“When the fuck were you meeting with a nurse and telling her about our personal shit?”

“I had lunch with her the other day. She’s a friend, okay? I trust her. And I was worried about Ian so I told her about him…“ Mandy’s voice trails off and Mickey feels like he’s been so preoccupied with worrying about Ian that he has no idea who his sister is anymore. She’s sitting on his bed wearing a huge pink skirt--it’s hipster-ish and like nothing she would’ve been caught dead in a few months ago. He knows it’s for work, but still. And since when does she have fucking _lunch_ with fucking nurses? 

He’s suddenly very tired again. “Well, good. Great. Why don’t you take your nurse friend’s advice and talk to Ian and see how well that goes. I’m going back to bed.” And he stubs his cigarette out and crawls back under the covers.

Mandy says, “Mick, you’re being an asshole--we have to do something about Ian,” but he doesn’t reply. She shakes his shoulder a few times but when he doesn’t respond even to that she stomps out of the room. He lays there for the rest of the day until the sun goes down.

*****

Mickey only spends one day in bed because he has shit to do and there’s only so much avoidance he can allow himself, even if he does feel fucking exhausted. Over the next week he hangs out at the Alibi, drinks too much, talks Iggy and Colin out of robbing an armored truck (because Jesus Christ they’re stupid), and he and Ian talk about nothing important, sleep next to one another, fuck a few times, and avoid looking at each other too closely. 

Eventually Mandy does say something to Ian. One day she waits until Nikka and Svetlana take the baby to the library and then she corners him as they sit around eating Cocoa Krispies. She purposely talks to Ian while Mickey’s there--trying to force him into backing her up.

“Ian,” she begins and by her voice’s careful tone Mickey knows what she’s about to blurt out and his heart beats fast, “Have you thought again about seeing a psychiatrist?”

Ian munches his cereal for a moment and answers, “I did that already. I went to the clinic. I got that medication--you know that.”

“No, I mean like a real doctor. A psychiatrist.”

“I don’t need one, Mands. I’m fine.”

“But maybe someday you won’t be, you know?”

All through this conversation she’s shooting Mickey pointed looks across the table--like ‘Jump in any time, asshole’ looks. But he’s silent and stares at the chocolate milk in his cereal bowl.

“I’m fine now,” Ian replies, “If I feel bad again, then I’ll see a doctor, okay?”

Ian stands up to place his bowl in the sink. He’s clattering things around which is a sure sign he’s mad as fuck. Mandy reaches over and whacks Mickey on the arm. He glares at her but he does finally contribute to the conversation, “It couldn’t hurt, though, could it?”

Ian turns and scowls at them. He huffs out a laugh as he crosses his arms and leans against the counter, “Is this an intervention? A fucking breakfast intervention? I’m fine. I’m the one who went to the clinic in the first place. And when I wasn’t feeling so good _I_ was the one planning to go to a doctor. But then I felt fine so I didn’t go. I’m not a fucking idiot and I’m not irresponsible. I’m not like I was before. I’m not depressed and I’m not crazy.”

“No one’s saying you are--“ Mandy interrupts.

“I’ve got this, okay? I’ve got this covered. I’m taking care of it.”

“You thought you were fine last time when you were fucking all the guys in the Fairy Tail, too.” Mickey adds, and as soon as this is out of his mouth, he knows it was the absolute wrong thing to say. Mandy knows it, too, because she stares down at the table. Ian turns red and says, “Fuck you,” to Mickey and without another word he walks out.

After the door slams shut Mickey groans, “Fuck,” and runs his hands through his hair. Mandy says, “We gotta talk to Fiona or Lip. Maybe they can get through to him.”

“He won’t listen to them.” Because Mickey knows Ian. He knows he won’t.

Mandy doesn’t respond, she just stands up and starts getting ready for work. There’s nothing to say.

*****

When Mickey’s mother was in the hospital he drew pictures for her. She had always liked his drawings. Even though theirs wasn’t a house that had kids’ artwork on the fridge (Terry would’ve ripped it down when he was drunk) Mickey and Mandy sometimes colored together on the dusty floor of her room and then showed their mom the pictures. She made a big deal about them--especially when she was sober. Mandy’s pictures were of weird, imaginary bugs, like hairy spiders with wings and antennae. Mickey’s were dinosaurs. 

But when his mom was suddenly in the hospital, Mickey wanted to draw something extra special for her. He remembered her love for baseball and he added it to his usual dinosaur scenery. He worked on it for days. He redrew it 15 times before he was even half-way satisfied. On the drive to Mercy Hospital Mickey waffled about whether he should give it to her or if the entire thing was just stupid. (Jamie drove them, Terry was back in prison and remained there for the length of their mom’s illness. He was released a week after the funeral and within six days was bringing home skanks and having loud sex with them in the bedroom where a few months before their mother had slept. Mickey and Mandy watched TV by themselves and turned the volume up high.)

Anyway, Mickey finally decided to bring the drawing to her. He remembers walking through the hospital’s sliding doors, clutching the piece of rolled up paper in his hands (he didn’t want anyone else to see it). When they entered her hospital room, which always stank faintly of piss and disinfectant, after Mandy hugged her, his mom glanced at Mickey and noticed he was holding a piece of construction paper, “What’s this?” she asked. Her words coming out a little fuddled from the pain meds.

“Dumb drawing.” he mumbled. But she held out her hand for it and he stepped close to the bed and gave it to her. She lifted it with hands that trembled and then laughed, “Mick, this is great!”

He shrugged and felt stupid. It was a drawing of Mickey Mantle, in his number seven uniform swinging a bat towards a T-Rex’s head. A baseball that Mantle had hit was frozen in mid-air right in the second before it would knock the monster’s eye out. The hitter and the dinosaur were in a leafy-green jungle somewhere and underneath the image Mickey had written in black crayon, “Number Seven hits a home run.” 

“Mandy, did you see this?” his mother asked and Mandy crowded next to her and also laughed when she saw the drawing, “Not bad, Mick!” 

They laughed together and then his mother had to lean back and said, “Oh, sorry, I got a little dizzy.” Mandy bit her lip. The happy moment was over and the visit didn’t last much longer. Mandy and Mickey tried to tell her what had been going on since they’d seen her two days ago, but she kept closing her eyes and apologizing for being tired. When they finally left she was already asleep. The drawing rested half-forgotten on the table near her bed.

During the ride home, and for the rest of the night (maybe for the rest of his life), Mickey felt like the world’s worst fucking idiot. Because as soon as she held that drawing in her hands and smiled, he knew that he hadn’t wanted to make his mom happy--he’d wanted to cure her. He had thought maybe if the drawing was good enough, that if it made her happy enough, she’d get better. Be healthy again. He thought that Mickey Mantle could defeat a T-Rex with a fucking baseball bat. He thought she could be saved with the right gesture, the right amount of love.

*****

After Mickey and Mandy’s pathetic Cocoa Krispies’ intervention, nothing happens for a few days. Ian works at the Kash and Grab, comes home, and they all pretend the glass they’re tiptoeing on can carry their weight. Mickey tries to keep tabs on Ian without him noticing he’s doing it, but of course he knows. When Mickey calls him periodically with dumb excuses like, “Did you lock the door before you left today? Cause there’s been two robberies on our street,” which make him sound fucking insane, Ian just sighs and says, “Yes, Mick. Now I’ve got to go, okay?” But one day, at 3 in the afternoon when Ian should be at work, Mickey gets a call from Linda. He’s in the Alibi, nursing a beer and adding up August’s accounts. His phone shows an unknown number so he answers the call by barking, “What d’ya want?”

“Mickey?” a familiar voice asks and he immediately recognizes its severe tones. It takes him back to half-eaten chocolate bars, sticky _In Touch_ Magazines, and sneaking glances at Ian across the register for hours on end. It’s Linda.

“Yeah?”

“Do you know where Ian is? Is he sick today?”

“He’s not at work?”

“Never showed.”

“He was supposed to be there two hours ago.”

“I know,” she answers dryly. “That’s why I’m calling you. He’s not picking up his phone and you’re his emergency contact so…”

Mickey desperately tries not to panic. His mind is shooting off in several directions all at once. His first trajectory is trying to remember how Ian was today, especially before he left for work. He had seemed fine. Well, as fine as he ever was these days. He hadn’t said much. He watched some TV-- _The Price is Right_ \--of all fucking things. He ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. At 12:45 he threw one of his plaid shirts over his t-shirt, kissed Mickey on the cheek, and left. Mickey could still feel the soft brush of his lips on his skin and the pressure of Ian’s hand on his arm as he squeezed him affectionately and said, “Gotta go to work. See you later.” And that was it.

The second mental rabbit warren that Mickey’s mind is navigating, is an image of Ian somewhere--passed out--on some stranger’s couch, on some dirty bathroom floor--or worse. 

The third tangent is repeating “stop panicking _stop fucking panicking_ ” over and over. But in the midst of his mind zooming off in these different crazy flights, he manages to choke out a lie to Linda, “He was feelin’ sick this morning so maybe he went back home. I’ll have him call you later.”

Linda sighs, “This is a pain in the ass, you know? I was supposed to sew costumes for my kids’ school play this afternoon and now I’ve got to watch the store. You tell Ian to call me the next time he can’t work--he can’t just not show--.”

“All right, all right,” he says distractedly and then hangs up on her.

He leaves the Alibi but doesn’t realize he’s left until he’s a few blocks away, walking home as fast as he can. It’s hot for September and he’s walking so fast, practically running, that he has to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He dials Ian’s cell as he walks. It rings and goes to voicemail. He hears Ian’s cheerful voice, “This is Ian--leave a message and _maybe_ I’ll call you back!” and even before Mickey can stop himself he thinks, “What if this is all I have of him now? This stupid, dorky voice mail message?”

Mickey leaves a message and tries not to sound too angry or freaked out, “Ian--Linda called--she said you never showed today. Where are you? Call me back, okay?”

He has a desperate hope that Ian will be home when he arrives. Sleeping under the covers in their bed--maybe too depressed to leave. Mickey doesn’t even think how messed up that is--that this is what he’s hoping for. But when he finally rushes through the door of the house, it’s empty. No Ian anywhere. He races from room to room anyway, though. He even checks the places Ian wouldn’t be--like in Svetlana and Nikka’s room. He’s nowhere.

Mickey stands in the middle of the living room for a moment, paralyzed. There’s a part of himself that says he may be worrying for nothing. And there’s another part that says he may never see Ian again. 

After swallowing several gulps of air he leaves, takes the family car, and starts driving. He goes to any place he thinks Ian may be--but eventually this turns into any place he’d ever been with Ian--any place where there’s a memory that binds Mickey’s heart tight. The dugouts, the old abandoned building they used to meet at sometimes, the field where Ian had ROTC practice and Mickey would walk past and pretend like it was a coincidence--he just happened to be walking by!--and he wouldn’t even look at Ian. That’s how stupid he used to be. 

While driving, he starts making phone calls. He calls Fiona. He calls Lip. He calls Debbie. He calls Ian’s old douche of a boss at the Fairy Tail. Nobody’s seen him and now Mickey has a bunch of panicked Gallaghers on his hands. They all say they’ll start searching for him, too. Eventually he dials Mandy. She’s at work but she picks up. When he tells her what’s happened he expects her to be angry at him--she warned him Ian was heading for a crash again after all--but she only says, “Fuck. Fuck, Mick.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s probably okay. He probably went somewhere to think and isn’t answering his phone or something.”

“Yeah, sure.” 

But they’re not convincing each other. They stay on the line for a while anyway--silent and listening to one another’s worried breaths as Mickey drives past the park where he and Ian once drank stolen 40s from the Kash N Grab and fucked behind the community center building late one night.

Eventually Mandy says, “I’m gonna leave work early, okay? I’ll tell them it’s an emergency or something,” and then she falls quiet as they both realize it may really _be_ and emergency.

“Okay,” he says, “See you at home,” and hangs up. 

The rest of the day and night pass agonizingly slow. Most of the Gallaghers make their way to the Milkovich house eventually, except for Fiona and Lip who’ve gone on a search for Monica because they think she may know where Ian is. It’s a night filled with futile phone calls to people Ian used to know, calls to Ian’s cell (he never answers), people coming and going, the baby crying, and drinking cup after cup of black coffee. 

Everyone has the same grim look on their face. Debbie starts calling hospitals (the only one brave enough) and Mandy tries the police stations. None of the places they call has admitted or booked an 18 year-old redhead.

Around 2 AM Fiona and Lip return. They never found Monica, but they’ve now enlisted Frank’s help in trying to find her by bribing him with $100 and a promise that he can come back into the house whenever he wants.

“Frank can always track her down if he really wants to--so we should probably know where she is in a day or two,” Fiona says, rubbing her eyes. She then turns to Carl and Debbie who are slumped on the Milkovich couch, “Come on, guys, let’s go home and get some rest.” All the Gallaghers troop out of the house leaving Mickey alone with Mandy (Nikka, Svetlana, and the baby went to bed hours ago). 

Mickey and Mandy don’t say anything but they have an unspoken agreement to stay awake. They sit on the couch with their phones on the table in front of them, waiting for a call, and watch increasingly weird late-night TV. Infomercials for shoe horns on sticks and party line ads with women in black lingerie who appear semi-comatose. They don’t say anything but as the night wears on they sort of collapse against each other on the couch. Mandy rests her head against his shoulder. 

At 7 AM Fiona calls for the stupid reason of telling Mickey that she hasn’t heard anything.

“Can you only call back if you actually do have news?” he growls before hanging up.

Svetlana, Nikka, and the baby wake up. The baby is the only person in the house not acting like somebody died and for the first time Mickey feels like he can see the kid objectively. Not as the product of the worst day of his life but as a baby. A fucking chubby baby that smiles and sleeps all the time and that Ian adores. Mickey picks the kid up and sits with him on the couch. Lets Yev tug his hair. Svetlana glances at him curiously cause he never voluntarily holds the baby, but she doesn’t say anything. When she takes Yev back to the table to eat breakfast in his high chair, Mickey’s phone rings. He’s expecting to see Lip or Fiona’s name on the screen but it’s Ian. _Ian_.

Mickey lunges for the phone, taps the accept button, and says breathlessly, “Hello? Ian?”

Behind him, at the kitchen table he hears three voices ask, “Ian? It’s Ian!?” but he ignores them.

On the other end of the line there’s static and wind blowing. Some kind of ringing bell that sounds like a train. “Ian?” Mickey asks again, practically begging to hear his voice, and then, there it is, the best noise in the world--Ian takes a deep, shaky breath and answers, “Yeah. Hi, Mick.”

“Where are you?”

“Uh, Itasca.”

“What the fuck are you doing out there?”

“I--I don’t really know. I--“ he sounds like he’s about to cry, so Mickey cuts him off.

“Never mind--are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” But he doesn’t sound okay.

“What’s the address of where you’re at? I’ll come get you.”

“It’s the Itasca Metra station. There’s all these fucking early morning commuters here and they keep staring at me--“

“Never mind them, just sit tight, okay? I’m leaving right now and I’ll be there soon.”

“I’m sorry, Mick. I’m so sorry--“

“Don’t be sorry, just stay there. Everything’s cool--I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t go anywhere, alright? Find a bench or something and wait for me.”

“Okay.” 

As much as Mickey wants to get on the road to find Ian, he’s reluctant to hang up while he drives, so he asks hopefully, “Your phone’s charged and everything?”

“No, it’s only got a little juice left.”

“Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.” And Ian hangs up.

Mickey puts the phone down and says to all of them, “Ian’s fine. At least, I think he’s fine. He’s in Itasca--I’m going to get him.”

Nikka looks relieved, Svetlana says, “Good, go, I will call Gallaghers and tell them,” and he nods at her gratefully. 

Mandy says, “I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t know--it might spook him if we both show up. He sounded --“

“I’m coming with you. He’s my fucking best friend, you know?”

And he doesn’t know, not really. He knows that Mandy loved Ian first, though. That she loved him for years and never blamed Mickey for taking him away from her. All she ever wanted was for Ian to be happy--maybe for Mickey to be happy, too. So he says, “Okay.” And they climb into the old car and head towards Itasca.

*****

While he drives, Mandy navigates with directions from her phone and they end up on the Eisenhower Expressway for a while, heading Northwest. It’s rush hour, but they’re leaving the city so the traffic’s not too bad. They don’t say much beyond, “Which exit?” and “Turn here.”

Mickey keeps turning on the radio and then abruptly turning it off because it’s fucking morning show bullshit. After he does this four times, Mandy snaps, “Can we please just fucking drive in silence?”

“Sorry.”

The corners of her mouth actually lift a little, “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever apologized for anything without swearing about it.”

“It’s cause I’m fucking distracted. I’m a fucking basket case.”

“Me too.”

When they exit the freeway in Itasca it’s all a bunch of boring, rectangle office buildings, but as they get closer to the train station in the heart of town, everything starts to look weirdly perfect--white picket fence and church spire perfect. 

“There’s the station,” Mandy says. And it’s a red brick building with white trim--like a station that would be in one of those model train sets weirdoes spend their time fiddling with. He and Mandy don’t see Ian anywhere so they park hurriedly in a handicap space (let ‘em give him a ticket, he doesn’t fucking care) and race into the station. There are only commuters with their suits and smart phones. Mickey and Mandy throw each other identical, desperate looks. They leave the station and search outside for a moment until Mandy points and shouts, “Over there!” and 20 feet away there’s an actual fucking white gazebo in a little park area and Ian is sitting inside it, but facing away from them. 

They run to him, they’re so relieved.

“Ian!” Mandy calls and he turns and faces them. As they get closer, Mickey can tell he looks like shit. There are shadows under his eyes and his face is wearing a desperate, hunted expression that reminds Mickey of the time he collected Ian from the club after he locked himself in a bathroom. His eyes are glassy and red-rimmed. He’s wearing his clothes from yesterday--jeans and a gray t-shirt. His hair is going every which way and he has this one clump in front of his eyes which on better days makes Mickey’s hand itch to tuck it back in place. Today though, he just wraps Ian into a hug and holds on for what is hopefully forever. Mandy hangs back and watches them nervously. 

Eventually Ian pulls away. He’s crying now and he says to both of them, “Sorry--sorry, I--“ but he can’t finish. He holds his hands up in a futile gesture and tries again, “I’m sorry.”

Mandy gives Ian a shaky smile. Mickey wants to get the hell out of here and go home so he says, “It’s fine. Let’s go,” and he places his arm around Ian’s shoulders and basically starts pulling him towards the car. When they get there Mandy makes a move like she’s going to sit in the backseat but Ian says, “No, I’ll sit in back,” and they all pile in. Mickey starts the car and peels away from the station parking lot. He’s so relieved, he feels like he’s waking up from a nightmare. Only just now does he realize that he has a pounding headache and a horrible, dry taste in his mouth. He feels like he’s back in the world now, back in his body, since Ian is in his car and they’re all going home.

As they wind their way back to the freeway, Mandy breaks the silence, “I’ve never been here before. Where even is ‘here’?“ she asks with a sad laugh, “What the fuck were you doing in Itasca, Ian?”

Mickey answers for him, “He’s probably too fucking tired to talk about it now, Mands.” He doesn’t want to worry anymore, he wants to have the happiness of Ian being here. He doesn’t want to hear what Ian has been doing during this long night, not yet.

“No, it’s okay,” Ian says. Mickey can see in the rear view mirror that Ian is curled up in a corner of the back seat and after a moment of looking out the window he finally answers Mandy’s question, “Sometimes when I feel crazy, I ride the train. And I went through Itasca a few months ago and it seemed perfect, you know? Like comfortable and happy but not in a too-rich, snotty way like the North Shore. Just happy.” 

“So you came here this morning to feel happy?” Mandy prods.

“No. I came here last night because I thought if I was going to kill myself I’d want to do it here--on the railroad tracks in beautiful downtown Itasca,” and he starts laughing like it’s a great joke. 

They’re on the freeway by this time. It’s 9 AM and traffic is still a bitch. Mickey barely registers the other cars, though, because he’s so mad. He practically yells, “What the fuck do you mean you were gonna kill yourself?” 

“It’s a joke, okay? Nevermind. I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.”

Mickey’s at a loss for what to say or do. A part of him wants to pull the car over to the shoulder and either throttle Ian or break down crying. He takes a few breaths to calm down and figure out what to do when suddenly Mandy speaks. She has that hard edge to her voice that always signals she’s about to lose it.

“Why would you want to kill yourself?”

Ian doesn’t answer her, he says, “Did you know that after my birthday I stopped taking my medication? No, of course you didn’t know because I didn’t fucking tell either of you. It wasn’t working anymore, but even I knew it was a stupid thing to stop on my own. It was just that I felt so awful and I kept remembering how I felt before--yeah, it was like dying sometimes, but it was so good other times. I wanted to feel good again. I thought maybe I’d get at least a few good days, but yesterday I started to feel like everything was running me down--all the shit. I had these horrible thoughts that never stopped. So, I decided to go away--only for a little while. I texted this asshole Chase I used to know and I hung out with him and his stupid fucking friends for hours. I did coke and I got fucked up and I got two different blow jobs,” Ian practically spits this at them now, “So, yeah, Mick, I cheated on you again. And, yeah, it was fucking shit. I felt like fucking shit. So around midnight I left those assholes and I got on the train to Elgin and I got off in Itasca and I waited for trains all night--freight trains come by sometimes--and I’d think if I weren’t such a coward I would stop hurting all of you and letting you all down all the time. But I am a coward. And you’re probably stuck with me for the rest of my stupid life so, yay you.”

“Well, I’m really fucking glad I am stuck with you!” Mandy exclaims because Mickey can’t say anything at all. He feels like there’s bile rising in his throat--like he’s about to throw up.

“Yeah, cause I’ve been such a great friend to you lately,” Ian says sarcastically, although he sounds kind of far away to Mickey. He can barely hear Ian past the panic throbbing in his heart.

“Yeah, you have been!” Mandy insists.

“Sure.”

Mandy doesn’t reply for a moment. Mickey is trying to breathe. They’re passing office parks and billboards along the highway. He tries to concentrate on the road, tries to think of something to say to Ian that will fix things. There has to be something to say. Then Mandy says to Ian, “Do you remember the day you went with me when I had to get that abortion?”

Mickey turns sharply to her and Mandy answers the question his eyebrows are asking, “It was one of the times you were in juvie.”

At least this is something he can yell about, “Who the fuck was it? Fucking Lip?”

“No--some guy--don’t worry about it,” she says, but there’s an undercurrent passing between Mandy and Ian in the car right now and it adds to alarm beating through his body.

Mandy speaks to Ian again, “So, you remember that day?”

Ian curls up even more in the back seat, hugging his knees to his chest, “Of course I do.”

“You took the bus with me to the clinic and you waited for me and after it was over you called a fucking cab to take us home. And I didn’t want to be by myself that day and it was like you knew that without me having to say it, because you stayed with me the whole fucking day. You made chicken noodle soup for me. And hot cocoa. And we watched _Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion_ and then you slept over so I wouldn’t have to sleep alone.

“That whole fucking time when all that shit was going on--that was the worst fucking time in my life. And I needed that fucking abortion like I needed air, but I’d barely ever been to the doctor before and I was really fucking scared. And you stayed with me. You made that day okay. Actually okay. Hanging out with you that night and watching movies--that’s an actual good memory for me. Do you understand what I’m fucking saying?”

Ian sighs, “So, I did a good thing for you one time--”

“Oh, my fucking god!” she bites out, “I’m telling you I need you, you dipshit! I need you to watch movies with me and to yell at me for dating pricks. I need you to listen to me complain and to make fun of my clothes. I need you to annoy the shit out of me and to make me laugh--you’re my favorite fucking person! The world would suck without you in it.”

Ian doesn’t reply. Mandy looks out the window and Mickey can tell she’s crying because every so often she swipes her hand across her eyes or sniffles. He doesn’t know what to say or do. All he knows is that they’re a fucking sorry group of people in a fucking sorry part of Chicagoland. And he doesn’t know what to do. They drive the rest of the way in silence and it’s awful. Mickey doesn’t know how they make it home, but somehow they eventually pull in to their street and park in front of the house.

When they open the front door, Fiona and Lip are in the living room with Nikka. Svetlana is in the kitchen bouncing Yevgeny on her hip while she stirs something sour-smelling in a pot on the stove. As Mickey, Ian, and Mandy walk in, Fiona and Lip stand up. 

“Hey,” Fiona says gently, “We were worried about you--“

Ian cuts them off, “I can’t--I can’t deal with this now. Could you just go? Please? I’m sorry--“ and he walks into the bedroom shutting the door and leaving all of them staring at each other awkwardly.

Fiona’s deflated and Lip shakes his head in resignation, “C’mon,” he says to her, “We’ll come by later after he has a chance to regroup.”

Fiona nods and says to Mickey, “Call me if anything happens, all right?”

“Yeah.”

They leave. Nikka goes to work. Mandy eats an entire bag of kettle corn (she always pigs out when she’s upset) and offers some to Mickey but he’s not hungry. Svetlana keeps cooking her weird Russian soup that smells like ass, and every so often Mickey enters the bedroom to check on Ian. And every time there he is, lying on the bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. Once Mickey asks him if he’s okay and he answers in a monotone, “Leave me alone.” So Mickey leaves him alone. 

A few hours later Yevgeny and Svetlana are at the park and Mickey and Mandy are half-watching Rachael Ray even though neither of them likes her. Mandy keeps complaining, “Rachael Ray seems like someone you could shit all over and she’d still be desperate for you to be her friend. She’s pathetic.”

Mickey grunts in agreement even though he really isn’t paying attention. He keeps thinking of Ian curled up in the backseat of the car--looking like he wanted to die. He keeps thinking of what Ian said. And he keeps wondering if maybe he should talk to Ian--convince him to go for a psych evaluation. Maybe whack him over the head and drag him there himself. If that would work. If anything would work.

Just then they hear a door open and Ian steps into the living room. Mickey sits up. Ian comes over and stands in front of them. Mandy mutes the TV.

“I need to talk to you,” Ian announces.

“Okay,” Mickey says and they both stare at him, warily. 

“I have to go to the hospital. I’m sorry--I’m sorry--“ and he starts to cry. His eyes are already red from crying all day, Mickey can see, but he starts to really sob now and Mickey practically jumps off the couch to hold him. Ian cries into his shoulder for a long time. They find themselves falling back on the couch and Mickey grips him as tight as he can and strokes his hair and murmurs, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” over and over. Above Ian’s shoulder Mickey can see Mandy looking as sad and alone as he’s ever seen her.

Eventually Ian manages to stop crying and he says, “I don’t know what else to do. I know it’ll hurt you, but if I don’t go, I’m worried about what I might--”

“So we’ll go,” Mickey says, “We’ll go today. Don’t fucking worry about me--I’ll be fine.”

He feels like something is ending--he knows now that Ian has to go to the hospital, but this means something is ending. Maybe it’s the last bit of denial that Mickey still had that things could fall back into normal. Maybe it’s the belief that they could ever have something easy. 

Ian wipes the snot from his nose and Mickey asks him, “Which hospital you want to go to?”

“Mercy,” Ian states, “I might as well go to the one Monica usually ended up in.”

“Okay,” Mickey says, even as he can picture Mercy Hospital, picture the sliding glass doors, picture the bank of silver-gray elevators, picture the room where his mother died, “We’ll go to Mercy.”

Ian goes to their room and packs a bag. Mickey and Mandy sit on the couch staring at Rachael Ray babbling silently on mute. When Ian comes out, ready to go, Mickey starts to feel like he’s sending Ian away. Off to war or something. It’s stupid--he knows it’s stupid--but he feels like he might never see him again. 

As they get ready to leave, Mandy stands up, too. She says, “I’m coming with you,” and Mickey looks to Ian to see if this is okay and he says, “Thanks, Mands.” So that’s that.

Mickey asks him if he wants to call Fiona or Lip to come with but he shakes his head, “Tell them--tell them after I check in, okay? Or I’ll call them or something. I just can’t deal with them right now.”

For the second time that day the three of them climb into the Milkovich car. Ian sits in the front this time, though. He taps his hand nervously on the arm rest as they drive. He turns on the radio and keeps flipping the channels--they never get a chance to listen to more than a line of a song. Eventually Mandy says, “Jesus Christ, Ian, get a fucking grip.” And Ian actually laughs, “I’m about to check into the psych ward, Mandy, changing channels is the least of it.” And Mandy smiles. Mickey wishes he could be more cheerful for Ian’s sake, at least pretend like they others are doing, but he can’t. 

When they find a place to park a few blocks away from the hospital, they all sit in the car for a minute. No one makes a move to open the door.

Ian turns to Mickey, “I feel like I’m really about to become my mother. Like really become her--I’ll go into that place and I’ll come out 30 years from now still batshit crazy. Constantly batshit. And you won’t be around anymore--you won’t be waiting for me.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be. I hurt you. All the time.”

“ _I’ll be here_. And you’ll be gone only a few days tops.”

Ian bites his lip and nods. Takes a breath. Opens his car door. Mickey and Mandy follow him. They walk to the hospital. It’s mid-September and it would be a nice day if Mickey could appreciate nice days. Sunny. A light breeze blowing the slightly gritty Chicago air. The hospital is surrounded by green leafy trees and the building glints warmly in the sun--Mickey hates it.

When they’re about 15 feet in front of the hospital entrance, Mandy stops and hangs back.

“Do you mind--“ she asks Ian, “Do you mind if I don’t go in with you?”

Ian touches her arm briefly, “No, it’s fine.”

“I’ll be out here, okay?” She says to them and Mickey nods. He knows why she can’t go in there. So he and Ian walk through the sliding doors together.

*****

They enter and Ian tells an admitting nurse why he’s there and she gets some doctor or social worker to talk with Ian to make sure he’s not a raging, violent lunatic, and since he’s not, they tell him he’ll have to wait to be fully checked in.

They sit in an emergency waiting room where there are no windows and no TV. Just a bunch of faded red chairs and florescent lights. It’s filled with sad looking people who all seem either fat and swollen or sickly thin and pale.

Mickey settles into one of the chairs and Ian paces around. It drives Mickey nuts. After 20 minutes of watching him look like a caged panther, Mickey complains, “Jesus, just sit down already, okay?”

Ian sits next to him. Mickey wishes that the chairs didn’t have these arms that make it hard for Mickey to gather Ian close to him.

Ian bounces his hand against his thigh in agitation. Mickey grabs it and holds it tight. He can’t look at Ian while he says this, but he’s gonna say it no matter what. He doesn’t care if the fuckos in this place can hear him. He feels like this might be his last chance. He stares at the floor, at his black worn-down sneakers, “You know, it always killed me to be different. Ever since I realized I liked guys, I’d have this phrase repeating in my head from the moment I woke up till the moment I went to bed, and it was, “Please, fuck, just let me be like everyone else.”

He’s gripping Ian’s fingers too hard but Ian doesn’t say anything. He can feel Ian gazing at the side of his face, “And then you came. And I hated you, almost, because it got worse--I mean, how different I was got worse--because how can you pretend to like girls when all you want to do is get fucked by this one guy? Spend time with this one guy? And you can feel your face start to smile whenever he’s around?” He knows, without even looking at him, that Ian is smiling a little bit now himself. Saying all this sappy shit is worth it, if Ian smiles a little bit.

“But what I want to say is that I wouldn’t change anything, you know? I mean, not even being gay. I’m fucking glad I’m fucking gay--and don’t fucking laugh,” but Ian is laughing anyway and Mickey laughs a little, too, “Stop laughing, asshole, this is important. I’m trying to say that I’m glad I’m different because if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have you. And you’re the best fucking thing I’ve ever had.” He has to pause then to swallow down the emotion in his throat. It isn’t ‘I love you,’ but it’s as close as Mickey can get.

Ian grabs Mickey into a tight, awkward embrace across the arms of their chairs. He buries his head against Mickey’s neck and Mickey kisses the side of his head. They stay holding each other like that for a long time. Sitting in the broken-down waiting room chairs, under the florescent lights that make their skin look sallow and sickly, surrounded by the greasy-haired dregs of humanity. Eventually Ian lifts his head and says, “Only you could say shit like that before I’m gonna be checked into a mental ward.” 

“I never said I was a fucking romantic.”

“That’s the thing, though. You are.”

“Yeah, well. With you I am.”

“This isn’t the end, you know that, right? I’m going to get out of here.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Mick. Look at me. I’m not going to stay in here forever. And I’m not going to kill myself, either. I decided that this afternoon while I was staring at the ceiling for four hours--I’m not going to be my fucking mother--and I’m not your mother either, okay? I’m going to save myself even if it kills me,” he means for this to be a joke but Mickey only says, “Okay. Okay,” and then he can’t help himself. He knows he should be there for Ian, but he throws himself into Ian’s arms now. Buries his face in Ian’s chest. Breathes in Ian’s smell. And Ian runs his hands gently over Mickey’s back.

When they pull apart Mickey looks at Ian. Ian’s eyes are both bloodshot and there’s huge shadows underneath them because he didn’t sleep at all last night. “You look like shit,” Mickey says. 

“So do you,” Ian answers.

They smile at each other for a moment before a nurse calls out, “Ian Gallagher?” and they have to rise and walk over to her. They hold hands and Mickey doesn’t know if Ian isn’t letting go because he’s scared, or if Mickey isn’t letting go because he is. The nurse has a bunch of forms Ian has to sign. Ian finishes them all without letting go of Mickey’s hand. 

Finally, it’s time for Ian to leave but they still don’t let go of each other. The nurse tells Mickey, “You can visit him tomorrow. Our visiting hour starts at 6 PM.”

“Hour? Just one?”

“Yes, from 6 to 7.”

He doesn’t even have it in him to be angry about this. He nods at her sadly and finally detaches his hand from Ian’s. Ian winces. Mickey promises, “I’ll be here tomorrow, okay? And every day after that as long as you’re in here. And I fucking hate this hospital so consider yourself lucky.” He means for that to be funny but it comes out sounding harsh and flat.

“I’m gonna get better, Mick. And then I’m gonna come home.”

“Of course you are.” Mickey feels himself about to cry and he’s not gonna do that to Ian when the guy can barely check himself into this place as it is. So he throws his arms around him in a quick hug and then pulls away just as quickly, “You better go.”

Ian nods and then he gestures to the nurse and she starts leading him down the long corridor. Mickey stands there watching him go. After Ian walks about 20 feet he turns back to shout at Mickey, “I love you!” A few people in scrubs turn to stare.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, me too. Now get going!” he yells and Ian smiles, like a small, genuine smile and then turns around again. He and the nurse walk to two swinging doors, push past them, and then Ian is lost from view. Mickey stands there for a long time, staring at where Ian used to be. Eventually, he wipes his eyes, squares his shoulders, and exits the hospital.

*****

Mandy is sitting on a curb outside the emergency room. She seems far away and confused like she doesn’t know how she got there or where she should go now.

She stands up as Mickey walks towards her. Brushes some imaginary dirt off her pants. When he reaches her he can’t say anything. Neither of them look each other in the eye.

“So,” she says eventually in a voice that’s breaking, “Is he checked in and everything?”

Mickey nods and manages a, “Yeah.” He keeps looking anywhere but her face--at the walls of the building, at the pavement, at the cars across the street. She awkwardly reaches out her hand to grab his wrist, “He’ll be okay, Mick. You know he’ll be okay.”

He jerks his hand away from her and nods again. He puts his head down to wipe tears out of his eyes and then he feels his sister pull him into her arms. She’s sobbing and shaking so much that she’s practically convulsing. Or maybe it’s both their combined sobs together. Because Mickey can’t hold it together any longer--he just loses it and holds onto his sister. He wishes everything were different. He wishes Ian was healthy and here. He wishes Mandy had never had a black eye. He wishes his mother were alive. But none of those things are true. 

Who the fuck knows how long they stand there, but eventually they break apart and wipe their eyes. They regard each other exhaustedly.

“We’re coming back tomorrow during visiting hours,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he replies. He wants to run away somewhere--anywhere--run away from the pain inside him. But he puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her towards him to kiss her on the top of her head the way Ian once did for him. And then he lets her go. They walk to the car together slowly, with their eyes all red and watery from crying too much over the boy they both love. The world isn’t different. The world isn’t better. Their mother died. Their father lived. Ian got sick. The world will never be good or fair, but maybe they can be better than they used to be. They can take care of each other now. The three of them will take care of each other together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I’m sorry this was so delayed. I really wanted to finish this fic by September. Then I wanted to finish by December. Then I had a goal to complete it by the time fifth season premiered. HA! I can only imagine what the reading process for this thing was like. 
> 
> Second, thank you so much to everyone who read this story, left kudos, bookmarked it, or left comments. The comments were especially awesome. You guys are great and you really made me determined to actually finish. 
> 
> And third, I hope you like the ending. I know it’s not a traditional happy ending, but I actually do believe it’s a positive one. I think Ian, Mickey, and Mandy will go through some really hard times (what else is new) but will be okay because they are strong people and they’re even stronger together.


End file.
